It’s been a while since I last talked to you. I hope you’re not just doing good but great amidst the Covid-19 pandemic humanity faces.
As for me, everything’s sailing smoothly. Of course, there are troubles along the way. But with His grace, I learned to treat them not as roadblocks but as essential steps to attain peace and clarity in life.
The work-from-home setup suits me well.
I’m not sure about you, but I concluded that Netflix doesn’t go well with my stack of books written by the Malcolm Gladwells, the Adam Grants, the Simon Sineks, the Jia Tolentinos, the Kazuo Ishiguros, and the Haruki Murakamis of the world.
South Korea’s ‘Vagabond’ is a revelation. Its storytelling valiantly shatters all expectations. Isn’t that true for most of their products and arts?
I hope you enjoy the sun and the occasional presence of butterflies and city birds in your backyard each morning the same way I do.
I hope to see you again someday, enjoy a cup of coffee together, talk about our unspoken dreams, and share a warm, reassuring embrace — with no masks on.
ONCE UPON a time, there lived an enormous she-dragon.
Her works and majesty and riches transcended continents, nations, and glaciers. She was revered as a ‘superpower’ and a savant in trade. Her name spelled dynasties, wars, and smoke. Her battle cry was to conquer, and through her mighty, scaly feet and claws, she slowly amassed territories that were not rightfully hers.
She boasted a tight grip on the minds of the smaller beasts worldwide because of her influence. Islands and rock formations in a blink became strategic satellites that carried her mysterious mist.
She has a renowned tendency to wave ancient maps and scrolls in the air that backed her wants. Treaties were nonexistent in her vocabulary; agreements were deemed necessities exclusive for the weak.
She did everything her heart desired. Until one day, she got sick.
She tried to suppress her illness for a time, knowing it could damage her reputation, but it got worse. Her health deteriorated.
Aghast, her advisers shouted for transparency; her citizens cried for help. She spewed burning coals to her detractors and balls of fire to her critics. She convinced everyone that she was still in control. That her throne was unnerved by the looming threat to her stature. But the increase in casualties didn’t cease.
One hundred.
Two hundred.
One thousand bodies.
Up to this day, nobody knows when she stopped counting.
When I first saw you about a couple of decades ago, I told myself that you were just another cocky Michael Jordan wannabe. The way you walked, the way you displayed your tongue for every dunk, the way you devoured gum during the game. You’re just a copycat, some basketball fans would declare; they denounced your name. I almost gave in to their hate, but as time passed by, I saw how you genuinely loved the game that I grew up playing since childhood. You earned my respect. I fell in love with life and the game even more because of you.
I don’t own a jersey with your player number on it or a pair of shoes you endorsed. It’s just not my thing, but deep inside my heart, I am one of your fans. I’ve always pictured you as a superhero – invincible, relentless, bigger than basketball. After harvesting five NBA championships, two Finals MVPs, an NBA MVP in 2008, and 18 All-Star selections, among other accolades in your solid 20-season professional career in the NBA with the Los Angeles Lakers, you were en route to then take Hollywood and the entertainment industry by storm. In 2018, two years into your retirement—being the Black Mamba we’ve always known—you became the first African American to notch the Academy Award for Best Animated Short Film, and to add to that, the first former professional athlete to be nominated and to win an Oscar in any category for your film Dear Basketball.
I was so happy for you. I still remember the grin on your face when you received that coveted award. I saw the purity of your excitement when you mentioned in your speech that while others expect basketball players to just “shut up and dribble,” you’re glad you did a little bit more than that.
Your name’s etched in my memory as a personification of what the mixture of excellence and fierce competitiveness must look like. I saw how you quietly honed your game as years passed by like a seasoned artist from a desolate land. You were never halfway when it was about basketball; you were all-in day in, day out. You perfected your craft unlike anyone else, and the world woke up from the mist of confusion brought by your strangeness in enchantment of your artistry, cheering for you as one of the deadliest and most influential athletes in history.
Your performance in the 2008 Olympics Gold Medal game was the most phenomenal basketball episode ever, bar none. You demonstrated to everyone what “killer instinct” looked like. Your 4-point play in the crucial minutes was epic.
You were a dependable closer. We felt your vigor, your intensity, and your relentlessness to win. Subtly, by simply observing how you became a serious student of the game and diligently stayed on the course to be the best version you could possibly be, you asked us to do the same in the respective stages we’re in. You asked us to strive for greatness.
Your passing broke my heart. But the knowledge that Gigi – your middle child and promising WNBA star – was also onboard the helicopter when it crashed on a hillside in Calabasas, California, along with seven of your friends, turned my broken heart into smaller pieces. I couldn’t utter a word while tears fell from my eyes when I heard the news. For the first time, I pleaded the universe for it to be fake news. But it wasn’t. And at 41, you left us.
I’ve never thought that your 2016 trip in Manila would be your last. It’s sad I never saw you in person. You made me realize even more to savor every second in life, to continue to love and be loved in a world that has gone mysterious and unpredictable.
You built a universe of your own, and then you invited us in. I’m grateful for that. You singlehandedly weaved the fibers of entertainment, sports, and the various cultures around the globe with your brilliant mind and classy demeanor. With sheer determination, you demonstrated to everyone how to treat sports the right way: no flops, no excuses, no missed practice sessions. Your unparalleled focus in demanding perfection and excellence not just to yourself, but also to those around you sealed your stature as one of the most iconic figures in our time capable of turning the world upside down with your elite manners and professionalism. Your respect for the game of basketball can only be exceeded by your passionate works off the court in reaching out to those who are in need. You’re a savant for unprecedented reasons, and the Mamba Mentality is worth reciprocating.
Watching you play was an experience, but I’ll always remember how you and Gigi looked at each other. I hope to experience the same connection with my child someday. I envision being like you, who’s capable of surmounting challenges and hurdles with humility.
Your absence physically won’t stop us from celebrating the lessons you willingly shared. Even in your death, you speak – that is the definition of greatness.
And the next time I set foot on a basketball court, God willing, I’ll search for the fine traces of your grit and love for the game in every corner, in every attempt, in every defense. As the shot clock expires while the basketball is in my hands, I’ll summon deep within me the little boy who first had a glance at you in a Los Angeles Lakers uniform a couple of decades ago.
In a sleek, composed tone, I’ll pronounce: ”Kobeeee!”
I WAS scrolling through my YouTube recommendations list about three months ago when I came across an interesting channel. The host looked familiar, but I never expected him to have his own space on the said platform. I was baffled at first. In a world clad with YouTubers and self-proclaimed ‘Influencers,’ Kuya Daniel Razon has decided to launch “KDR TV.”
I’ve always known Kuya Daniel as a prominent news anchor and tv host. He’s the mind behind Wish 107.5 and the chief executive officer (CEO) of BMPI-UNTV. His integrity is impeccable. In 2017, he was awarded the “Lifetime Achievement Award” in the 25th Kapisanan ng mga Brodkaster ng Pilipinas (KBP) Golden Dove Awards. But why did he decide to be part of YouTube? For what purpose?
After watching all his uploaded videos, the answer came to me: He wants to share his thoughts, passion, and perspective while conversing with a large audience. Yes, it’s a conversation because he reiterates every time that he also seeks what others have to say.
As of today, KDR TV raked in about two hundred thousand views on YouTube. It has more than 20,000 subscribers and covers fitness, technology, and reflections on life and love.
It’s been an exciting experience for me as one of the channel’s subscribers. And so, to prove this point, here’s KDR TV’s “Best Five” for 2019:
First impression of the Foldable Samsung Galaxy Smartphone
When Samsung Galaxy Fold was first introduced during the first quarter of 2019 and failed to meet the expectations of some tech reviewers around the globe with its problematic plastic screen, it went into a hiatus. The controversy was unlike anything I’ve heard before.
But months later, it was officially released on September 27, 2019. Samsung made some key adjustments. The product recaptured the imagination of the market with its supremely cool form factor, next-level gaming capabilities, enormous battery, and improved nonremovable plastic screen. There was an insurmountable hype. And Kuya Daniel got a hold of one of its commercial units.
Kuya cited his first impressions of the product with his first tech review. A striking feature of the innovative design of the phone is its articulated spine or the hinge. The hinge allows the phone to close and open like a book. Its screen size when unfolded boasts 7.3 inches which is perfect for watching videos on YouTube and Facebook. Because of its enormous overall size, the convenience that a user can experience when typing text or chat messages is commendable. When the phone’s folded, one can still call someone with ease. Naturally, it has its downsides according to Kuya.
Unlike other phones, the Galaxy Fold is fragile; it’s supposed to be handled with great care. Any seasoned device or gadget user can sense by merely holding a product whether or not it can operate solidly in harsh usage environments such as continuous vibrations, harsh temperatures, and wet or dusty conditions. In Kuya’s analysis, the Galaxy Fold can’t be exposed to dusty environments because of the possibility of particles getting into the hinge area which may produce an annoying, creaking sound while being folded. In the long run, the accumulation of dirt and dust can damage the phone.
It’s an honest review. The price is divulged at the end of the video which is about $2,000.00 or Php 100,000.00. It’s equivalent to two Apple Macbook Airs!
So, will you buy one?
A day in a life of a CEO: Kuya Daniel Razon
Who never dreamt of being the Chief Executive Officer of a company someday? I did, and this vlog is a revelation.
As mentioned in the first part of this piece, Kuya Daniel is the CEO of BMPI-UNTV – one of the registered and recognized local television channels in the Philippines. But how does a CEO of a growing media entity spend his day?
Typically, Kuya’s engagements include hosting a morning show, conducting meetings with department supervisors, attending voice-over recordings, and giving instructions to some members of the organization. In his willingness to guide his colleagues on their concerns beyond their jobs, he makes it a point that he’s also available for those valuable occasions. He spends time checking on how they are doing and understanding their situations.
In the video, Kuya subtly reminds his viewers to do good things whenever they have a chance. In handling work, he emphasizes that if you really love what you’re doing, you’ll persevere; you won’t quit easily. Passion for achieving a goal should be present. And if ever there are things that you must do that are not written in your job description, you should see yourself as a learner. That your actions to grow as a person shouldn’t be fueled and defined by money alone.
KDR Says: Bakit hindi ka crush ng crush mo?
Yes, love. The language of the universe. The mothership. The real deal.
Some proclaim that KathNiel still has it while JaDine’s version of it has already expired. But why does the person we like doesn’t like us back?
It’s natural for a person to admire another person. We’re designed to feel a special, alluring type of attraction towards someone. We fall in love in different ways. We can’t fathom its fullness. But what Kuya articulated in this vlog is worth pondering: “Things should come to you naturally; do not pretend to be somebody you are not.”
The first point that Kuya raised is that we should be as accurate as we can possibly be when we meet someone. If you’re fond of the arts and music – show it; if you’re into fitness – embrace it; if you’re sweet, jolly, and caring – express it. You shouldn’t do something because somebody you like likes it. Do it because it’s good and beautiful and pure. Don’t live on the expectations of someone you like. Strive to be a better person in how you deal with others.
The second one? We can’t control the emotions of other people. Sometimes, in our objective of getting someone’s attention, we change ourselves to the extreme that we could no longer apprehend the person we have become. It’s not sustainable.
Because unrequited love doesn’t dictate who we are as a person. The governing principle in life is not for someone you like to like you back. If in the process of improving yourself you meet someone who appreciates you, then cling to it. Never let go. Stay sincere.
Benefits of daily 25 push-ups by Kuya Daniel Razon
Indubitably, daily exercise is good for the health. Science supports it. Substantial studies have been made about it. So, do it. Now. 25 push-ups for the soul and body!
True Love na ba ito? KDR Says
Again, love.
This must be the most striking vlog for me by KDR TV for 2019 because of the new insights I obtained.
In this vlog, Kuya said: “It’s love if you still like the person over time.” Time reveals a man’s character, and it goes the same way to the one we truly love. But when can we say if the love is true? Here are the following steps he shared:
Conduct some research or investigation on the person.
No, he doesn’t ask us to hire an investigator to observe the person we’re fond of 24/7. We must do it by ourselves. But how? Instead of directly scrutinizing the person to know what their ideas, thought processes or values are, we can ask those who are close to them. We can formulate questions about the person and indirectly inquire about these to their friends, family members, or peers. As we go through this process, we’ll be more equipped. We must learn how to listen. Our interactions with the person and those around them can reveal salient details we’ve never imagined before. We just have to be patient.
Put yourself to the test as well.
Do you exclusively love the person? Is there still a niggling fact that you’re juggling two names in your heart? Do you like the person because of a particular trait that they possess? Is it because they’re good at singing? In dancing? In playing the guitars? We have to test ourselves as well. As what Kuya Daniel uttered: ”Kasi yung ‘mahal’, nand’yan man yung hinangaan mo dati sa kanya and then later on nawala, yung pagmamahal natitira ‘yon. Nandodo’n pa rin. Nararamdaman mo pa rin.”
Because in the end, we can’t romantically love two people at the same time. To do so is against sanity.
‘The room, the gate, the hallway, the building – they all seemed to have shrunk in size and impact for me. Everything felt smaller.’
MY YOUNGER brother and I arrived at a polling precinct in the Metro at around 6:15 in the morning on Monday, May 13. There weren’t many people yet. Laptops were placed on a long wooden table at the right wing of the elementary school building. Volunteers distributed pieces of paper where voters had to write their full name and birthday that served as references in determining their designated room numbers. It was smooth. I was hopeful and ecstatic because I’d get to practice my right to choose the future leaders of my beloved country, the Philippines.
Room 207. Cluster 404A. Second floor.
“Please prepare your ID if you have one with you,” one of the volunteers announced as he went out of the room, “it’s for easier processing.”
I checked my company ID inside my pocket with a blue lace. While I was waiting in line, I saw my name and my relatives’ names posted on the wall outside the classroom. I felt great that I was at the right location.
There were only eight of us waiting in line. I saw familiar faces: a former grade school teacher, a neighbor, an old classmate. It was as if I travelled back in time twenty years ago. The room, the gate, the hallway, the building – they all seemed to have shrunk in size and impact for me. Everything felt smaller.
After 2 minutes, the line started to move. The room had the capacity of taking in 12 voters simultaneously: 3 rows, 4 columns. Then, I presented my ID to the election officer.
“Zenarosa, po,” I uttered. “Benre.”
“Let’s check,” the officer said as she was scanning a binder with names in it. “There you are… please sign here, sir.”
And sign I did.
Like a dove that’s about to land on a pure, uncontaminated surface, I patiently examined the chamber and decided to sit at a corner at the lower right to avoid any distraction. I positioned the long folder to cover my ballot and I started to shade the small circle beside the name of my chosen candidates.
For senators, I only picked 5; for city councilors 2. I also voted for mayor and vice mayor and congressman and party list.
The marker wasn’t a regular ballpoint pen; it gave me an impression that it’s a pentel pen. The markings can be seen on the other side of the ballot. Is it normal? I asked myself. What if because of the intensity of the markings my votes become invalid?
It took me about 10 minutes to finish the whole selection process and scrutinize the ballot. But for some reason, my hands were shaking. I don’t know if it’s because of a cup of 3-in-1 coffee I sipped earlier that day, or it’s just because my whole being understands that what I was doing was so sacred and precious and crucial to nation-building and the fate of the future generation. That voting wasn’t a banal act, but if done solemnly can bring an enduring metamorphosis.
I carefully held the ballot with my two hands and headed towards the line for the Vote-Counting Machine (VCM). I made sure that the ballot didn’t have any fold or damage. But the voters who were ahead of me in the line experienced some troubles. The ballot of a man in his thirties was rejected by the VCM. The man tried to insert the ballot to the machine multiple times, but it wasn’t effective. Later they realized that his ballot was tainted with what looked like an ink at its top section that prevented the machine from accepting it. The officer told him that they’ll just take note of what happened in their minutes on a bond paper. Disheartened, the man hurriedly left. But they forgot to get his name.
Similar scenarios occurred to two other voters in the polling precinct. The VCM didn’t process their votes. Their ballots got stuck. It could be because of the quality of the paper, the other voters said. They speculated that the machine and the paper were incompatible. Receipts weren’t generated.
Frustration started to surface inside and outside the classroom. More and more people were arriving. We’re delayed. And people started to complain…
It’s around 6:40 AM. When it was my time to slip the ballot to the machine, I secretly prayed for my vote to be successfully read. I really wanted to cast my vote especially for party list. And it worked just fine. I reviewed the receipt and it showed the correct list of candidates I chose. I was grateful.
But it didn’t stop there.
While waiting outside the room for my brother to finish casting his vote, I saw senior citizens and PWDs going up and down the stairs.
“Lola, let me help you,” I told one of them. She was moving slowly, and it was evident that she was having a hard time. The episode pinched my heart.
“Thank you, but I can manage,” she answered while going down one step at a time. She smiled at me. I let her be.
Weren’t the PWDs and senior citizens supposed to vote at the ground floor for it to be easier for them? Can you imagine being in their shoes at that moment? They just want to be active participants in our society. Why should we make it harder for them to do just that?
Later that day, I joined a party of passionate and vibrant trekkers and mountain climbers from Marikina City. I was on vacation leave. For 2 days and 1 night, we embarked on a journey towards Mt. Daraitan and Tinipak River in the heart of Sierra Madre in Tanay, Rizal. Most of the time during our trip, there was no mobile signal. I was clueless on what’s going in the elections. Ultimately, I turned off my phone.
On Tuesday night, while resting when I returned home, news and updates about the elections were everywhere.
As I dived deeper into the online conversations and headlines, three topics got my attention: “Ang bobo ng mga Pilipino”, “Nag-budots lang nanalo na?”, “Jejomar Binay fails to vote after ballot rejected by vote-counting machine.”
The third one brought me an epiphany. It was somehow similar to what happened to other voters in our precinct on the election day.
According to the Comelec’s resolution: “No replacement ballot shall be issued to a voter whose ballot is rejected by the VCM except if the rejection of the ballot is not due to the fault of the voter.” Clearly, it wasn’t the man’s fault that his ballot got rejected. He should have been issued a replacement ballot. But before he left, he wasn’t informed of this option. Definitely, there were lapses.
How about the defective SD cards? The substandard markers? And more importantly, the 7-hour delay in transmitting voting data into the transparency server?
If we want a more decent and impressive voter turnout in the next elections, the systems and processes we’re implementing should be revisited. We should also investigate the hardware and software we’re using and inquire if the budget allotted to the conduct of our elections is being spent to meet our ideals.
Filipinos deserve the best. If we want to elect the most deserving individuals in our midst for leadership positions and for the voting population to have greater confidence in our elections, the whole voting experience should be credible and dependable and transparent.
As of this writing, the partial and unofficial election results are at about 96%. We know we can do it faster and better. The glitches and maltreatment of some of our PWDs and senior citizens and below standard equipment are surmountable. Yes, our country’s facing so many trials. In order for us to spark real transformations and trek our way to the other side of the mountain, we should also go beyond ourselves and our expectations.
Every election symbolizes a new beginning, a revolutionary hope. Isn’t it intelligent and sensible to start change there?
‘Still, she’s beautiful. You wonder what her phone number is.’
IT STARTS with a silent stare. Yes, not on her, not on the one you’re in a relationship with, not on her eyes and lips and hair, not on the way she walks and carries her bag. It begins with the invasion of your heart of a foreign being you believe captures your imagination. What if I ask her out? What if I’m with her? Would I be happier? I’m tired of the current one. I’m bored. Is it time to move on? Her legs look great.
You tell yourself that it’s okay to look at the other woman passing along the streets. It isn’t the first time you see her. She’s on her way to work. Her attire says so. It’s a weekday anyway, and you’re just having coffee. It’s freezing outside. Earlier, your girl greeted you ‘Good morning, babe‘; you do not reply to her. Here you are about to pursue a new prospect. Everybody does that, you tell yourself. It’s as if you know every soul in the human population. You arrive at that generalization simply because it’s easier to justify what’s going on in your mind that way. The blank glimpse. Possibilities. You’re observing the world you’re in. It’s fascinating. Still, she’s beautiful. You wonder what her phone number is.
And you approach the stranger. Confidently. You’re wearing an enticing fragrance. It’s your lone chance. It might slip away, and you don’t want to have any regrets later.
You abandon your coffee you bought for two dollars. You tell her that she forgot something. She turns around and asks what it could be. There’s grin on your face, and you tell her the magic word: “Me.”
Her face lights up to the novelty of the act. She finds it cute.
You ask her where she’s headed. For a moment, for the second time, in a span of minutes, you forget about your girl. You erase your vows, your promises, and the spirit contained in the inspired letters you wrote to win her years back. She was your dream then. Take note of ‘was.’
You go back to the current situation. The stranger smiles at you. She asks where you live, your work, your hobbies on weekends. You both love movies, but not just any movie. You love mystery films, investigative, those that oblige you to think. Your girl likes romantic – comedies. But you no longer care. It’s getting deeper.
There’s connection, a spark, or so you believe. You inquire about her number, and she willingly gives it you.
“Where’s your phone?” she says.
“Here it is,” you respond.
And you part ways. But, it doesn’t stop there.
For the next few months, you secretly communicate. The stranger and you. The other woman and you. Your girl follows the routine: cooks you breakfast, washes your clothes, and kisses you each morning and before you shut your eyes. These don’t mean anything to you anymore. Your body is with her, but your heart is trying to escape.
And escape you do. Little by little.
You no longer respond to your girl’s “I love you’s”. For you, her value depreciates every day you look at her. She senses it. She’s not dumb. She questions what’s going on. What’s wrong with me? What’s lacking? I’m educated and independent and intelligent, but again, am I not enough?
You think it’s okay to play around. Your girl confronts you, but you lie. Hundred times. Maybe thousands. You tell her that everything’s okay. You’re just tired from work. It’s your boss. Your colleagues. It’s the book. The series. The weather.
Until one day, your phone rings as it receives a new message. Curious, your girl unlocks it using your thumb. You’re still asleep. She reads the text message from the stranger. The sender is named ‘Babe.’ The text says, “I miss you.” She uncovers the truth. She scrolls the thread. It’s been going on for a long time. The puzzles in her mind vanish in an instant. You’re a cheater.
She sobs. Alone. In another room of your just furnished house.
She thinks of confronting you, of waking you up. She imagines hurting you physically and calling you a liar. But she chooses not to engage in such quarrel. She knows her worth and packs her things. She left.
You wake up with her no longer around. There is silence…
And weeks later, your fling with the other woman stops. There’s a simple misunderstanding, and she deserts you without any explanation. It’s miserable. While you’re in your room, the memories of your girl visit you. You ponder on her value in your life. But there’s nothing you can do about it now.
‘His hope of coming back and correcting his wrong have always floated into the whole flow of the story which were so pure and innocent – acts that we sometimes associate with weakness.’
I WAS seven when I first met him. A fleck of dust besmeared his face; his curly, golden hair and stylish, scarlet ribbon bow tie were pictured to have been enslaved by the wind freely drifting from a corner of his planet scarcely bigger than himself; his pale green coat’s motif suggested it was of foreign origin – from another universe even; his vision casted into the unknown while standing upright next to what looked like a tiny, active volcano spewing smoke and fumes. He was frozen in time. Alone. On a book’s front cover.
Written by French aviator Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, the thin, minuscule book was titled, “The Little Prince.” The story was about a pilot who was forced to land in the Sahara and encountered a mysterious young boy who claimed to be an extraterrestrial prince.
I intently stared at the book’s cover and paused for its strangeness. Then, I swiped the dust covering the little prince’s face with a piece of cloth. His eyes and nose and lips were minute dots or lines delicately plotted on a peculiar canvas. In a blink, a sensation ran through my veins like a river flowing tranquilly. It was as if he invited me in for an adventure – a black hole that came with a cathartic magnificence for an absence that has been lurking inside. There’s no way I could resist that.
You have to understand that I was never a book reader then. Just like most of the children my age in our neighborhood, I didn’t find pleasure in discovering fictional worlds created by minds I knew nothing about.
When the little prince had decided to leave his tiny planet to comprehend what love is after a rose with four thorns baffled his consciousness, he met a king, a conceited man, a tippler, a businessman, a lamplighter, a geographer, a fox, and an aviator.
During his stay on the seventh planet, on Earth, with the aviator, his loyalty to the lone rose on his planet has always been there. His hope of coming back and correcting his wrong have always floated into the whole flow of the story which were so pure and innocent – acts that we sometimes associate with weakness.
The little prince made me realize that there’s beauty and romance and dignity in self-discovery. He taught me that the best things in life can never be brought by the acquisition of what we’ve been working hard for and of what we’re expecting understandably well, but the silent arrival of the unseen, yes, of the mysterious gifts we have been unknowingly longing for which sometimes reveal themselves with a fleck of dust from an untouched region in our hearts. Because ultimately, what is essential is invisible to the eyes.
Truth be told, similar to what happened in our first encounter, I wasn’t expecting to see him about a month ago. I went on a visit to a bookstore closest to my workplace to inquire about the availability of a George Saunders book titled, “Tenth of December.” But there he was, stationed at a shelf near the entrance; something has changed in him. He was much bigger, his golden, curly hair was more radiant, and the intensity of the color of his coat was finer. He looked a little bit different from the one I had met one afternoon when I was seven who vanished when we moved in to our current home. A metamorphosis at its absolute form.
And as I was about to leave the bookstore, the cashier with a smile on her face asked me, “Sir, how about this one?” She waved in the air a copy of “The Little Prince” I had placed close to her station. Then, strangely, I found myself giving a ready answer I’ll never forget.
‘And so, I hope you celebrate love with those who see you beyond your skin; those who look at you not just as a fleeting specimen in a universe that keeps on moving.’
IF YOU’RE single now and has no one to date with, it doesn’t mean that you’re supposed to feel lonely. It’s a state of mind. You’re unattached because you’re taking your time. You don’t want to settle. You want the one who’s yet to arrive to be The One. You’ve probably been hurt just recently, or you’ve never been in a relationship before, but that means you have an opportunity to discover yourself more – your gifts, your faults, your aspirations.
Some people dive into a relationship without a clear sense of who they are; they are befuddled on how to set boundaries; they’re clueless on what their expectations embody.
As you probably observed, conflict happens when miscommunication gets into the picture yes, when trust is tainted with infidelity and secrecy. Some of us think that a sensual message to a third-party won’t hurt the relationship; that it’s just a senseless game. But as days pass by, they’re succumbed to the claws of darkness, of forgetting all the words and promises they uttered. And one wonders how easy it is for them to move on; how convenient it is to jump from one fence to another.
Others think that everything’s going to be perfect. Their minds are still immature to the implications of saying “yes” to someone. There are those who give those they love access to everything they have even if they’re unprepared to its effects up to the point that they can no longer recognize who they are. They think of the other person as their world, and when that person commits a mistake, they treat their whole existence to be in vain. And that’s when they part ways. They can no longer endure the presence of who used to be their better half.
Because true love dwells to those who are willing to sacrifice and suffer. Nobody can expect each day to be light and tender and soothing. There will be bricks along the way and the only option is to get over them and to treat them not as fragments of hindrance, but as foundations to a long-lasting union.
To love is to give the other person a spacious, decent, and comfortable room to breathe, to be free to reach for their personal goals and full potential, and to have a voice on valuable causes as a contributor in building a brighter future for humanity. It may sound too momentous, mammoth-like even for some, but we do not exist to solely please one person and give their wants and needs. We’re here to unmask the greater reason of living. That day will come that all your frustrations will just be part of the past.
And so, I hope you celebrate love with those who see you beyond your skin; those who look at you not just as a fleeting specimen in a universe that keeps on moving. Because you deserve better and when the right person arrives, you’ll know it. Your heart will speak to them like you’ve known them before. And that moment is going to be so much more special than the maelstrom of flowers and chocolates presented on any given time of the day.
‘We’re in this puzzle of existence reaching out to the unknown, figuring out what makes sense, doing what’s good as dictated organically by our hearts.’
IF YOU’RE reading this now, it means you’re coping. That stage of your life where you found yourself locked inside your room for days or weeks or months is gone. By “room,” I’m not just talking about the physical one with four corners and a bed and a lamp and a shelf. I’m talking about the untouchable, secret bulwark inside you that nobody else has a key to but you and God.
The well of your tears has dried up. And for an unknown reason, a new source of strength and hope showed itself to you. It could be your faith, your love, your family. Whatever it is, embrace it, cling to it, and never let go.
I understand that sometimes this world is just too much. There are failures, betrayals, isolation, frustrations, expectations. Some of your friends vanish from your side like a bubble popping aimlessly under the summer sun. They leave without any trace or explanation. And in those moments, you question your worth. Know that your value isn’t dependent on how they see you, how they treat you, or how they perceive you. Go on. Keep walking. Reach for your dreams.
Do you remember that bucket list of yours that you’ve been keeping for a long time now? Revisit it. Think it through. And one by one, with all the energy and optimism and drive left in your tank, do everything in your power to turn each of them into a reality. To shift your gears one more time.
I know that it’s easier said than done. You’ve probably heard these same words from your core acquaintances before, or maybe you’ve read it in a book. But what are our choices, really? Here we are in a world currently being shared by about 7.7 billion people — living, breathing, walking, waking up, eating, talking. We’re in this puzzle of existence reaching out to the unknown, figuring out what makes sense, doing what’s good as dictated organically by our hearts.
Every day, new innovations in technology and engineering are being introduced that had been curated inside laboratories or research facilities somewhere by the nerdiest and most creative among us. New celebrities are being born on YouTube and Facebook and Instagram. Their motivation may include fame, power, prestige, or for their names to be etched in history. These are debatable reasons, but you don’t have to compare yourself to them. Don’t scroll if you sense that you have the slightest tendency of feeling despair, jealousy, or the never-ending stream of doubts of who you could be. Not everything that you see – the glossy photos, edited videos, and perfect moments – are real. Aim for specificity and learn to decipher the real ones.
Focus on your abilities and talents and don’t live to impress the world. Explore at your own pace and rhythm and earnestly prepare your backpack. Leave behind the unwanted baggage. Go out into the unknown. Because to achieve peace and contentment in one’s skin is one of the travails that humanity is facing today more than ever. Don’t give up now.
Trust that you’ll feel lighter; yes, it’ll get better.
(This piece has been published by Thought Catalog on January 31, 2019.)
‘A merciful, kind, and loving God does not call that one loses oneself and physically suffer for the world to see or be a catalyst for his neighbors to be in agony.’
WHEN I was little, there’s a feast in our old neighborhood in the country’s financial capital that we tirelessly observed after the New Year celebration has died down.
Dressed in scarlet t-shirts with the supposed image of Jesus Christ at the center, jubilant, high-spirited men in their twenties, thirties, forties, fifties, and sixties talked about their strategies on how to get closer to the ‘Poon’ during the ‘Traslacion’- the transfer of the black image of Jesus Christ from San Nicolas de Tolentino in Intramuros to the Minor Basilica of the Black Nazarene in Quiapo in Manila.
“You should be the lead since you’re the strongest” one of them said.
“What if we line up this way?” another one added. “Will this work?”
It was intense. Such mood enraptured my imagination. It was as if they’d go into a war like seasoned soldiers only that they’re not allowed to bring anything with them. And yes, no slippers and shoes on.
I expressed my desire to join the euphoria but I was turned-down right away. I was only seven years old.
“It’s not for children” Mang Kaloy said, who’s one of their most vocal leaders. “Just play basketball.”
On the day of the festivity, the footages of the coverage of news organizations disturbed me when I saw them the first time.
Cavalcade of devotees. Wiping of the cross or foot of the image with a cloth. Shouts. Cries. Emergency. Difficulty in breathing. Heart attack. Stretchers. Casualties. Death.
Chaos was all over. Everybody wanted to have a grip of the cord of Black Nazarene. And then, as my mind wandered, I got lost. Is this what Catholic faith looks like? Is this what God wants to happen?
If we’ll look at the Traslacion 2018 data, one devotee died and as many as eight hundred were injured. Can’t you imagine the total number of casualties since this activity started? These may just be mere figures for some, but these require a closer examination.
When our youngest brother told me four years ago that he’d continue the devotion of my deceased father to the Black Nazarene, a hollow deep inside me resurfaced into my consciousness. Suddenly, my childhood horrors to this brutal affair all came back in my memory like a boomerang that successfully stitched all the gaps of the years that have elapsed.
“Isn’t it too dangerous?” I told him. “Can you just not join them?”
“No, kuya” my brother said. “It’s for tatay.”
But is it biblical?
In Deuteronomy 5:7-9 (King James Version), it says: “Thou shalt have none other gods before me. Thou shalt not make thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the waters beneath the earth: Thou shalt not bow down thyself unto them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me,.”
If the main basis of the Catholic faith is the Bible, why then are they continuously transgressing such commandment? Clearly, the Black Nazarene is a graven image or an idol as described by the holy scriptures.
Or at least, can’t the leadership of the Catholic church in our country impose regulations and guidelines to its members for a safer execution of ‘Traslacion’? If the everyday challenge of riding our trains can be controlled, a once-a-year event such as this can be solved.
In an ABS-CBN News report dated January 9, 2018, in relation to the statements given by Manila Archbishop Luis Antonio Cardinal Tagle, it stated: “’May our participation in the different activities during the feast lead us in deeply knowing Jesus, Tagle was quoted as saying by the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of the Philippines (CBCP) News on Monday. Reflecting on this year’s theme ‘Black Nazarene: The way, the truth, and the life’, he also called on the faithful take a closer look at Christ. ‘He is the way to the father. He is the truth that we’ve been looking for. He is the one who can give us and the society life.’”
In the end, we should as a society search for a better way. We should search for truth and practice our faith without compromising others. We can’t just be silent observers of an annual savage religious activity where millions of lives are on the line. For our relatives, for our friends, and for our fellowmen. A merciful, kind, and loving God does not call that one loses oneself and physically suffer for the world to see or be a catalyst for his neighbors to be in agony.
Let’s preserve life and don’t let the scarlet shirts the barefooted devotees are wearing be their last.
‘You’re reminded that this life is just a fleeting illusion; that you’re a humble traveler; and that this may come to an end in a snap. Today, you’re a towering figure of physique and fitness; tomorrow could be a different story. It’s not promised.’
I STARED at it for about five minutes yesterday at one in the morning. An untitled painting that measures roughly 4 feet by 3, it was displayed on a private hospital’s wall on the third floor with a maelstrom of kaleidoscopic koi of divergent sizes swimming around an imaginary cylinder clockwise under a dark blue water. The artwork was strangely cut into half vertically and was hanging slightly slanted 15 degrees to the right. The others which boasted abstract flashes of colors and astronomic designs stationed at different sections of the corridor were not presented the same way. I was absorbed and drawn by it; its peculiarity intrigued me.
I was all alone, wide awake, sitting on a brown, foamy bench outside the capacious visitors’ room, where my mom was sleeping, just ten feet away from the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). The breeze was frigid; it was raining outside. I was waiting for the doctor to come out of the ICU to check for an update on one of my brothers’ condition. He had a mild stroke while sharing a meal with his own family in their house in Cavite City, south of Manila. Coincidentally, I was on a three-day vacation leave for my birthday. But how would you celebrate your birthday knowing that your family is amid a crisis?
“Kuya Jun Jun is in the hospital” my youngest brother Ronnel said.
“Why?” I uttered. “What happened?”
“High blood, probably” he said. “He had seizure.” In a heartbeat, my mother and I swiftly stuffed our bags with clothes and toiletries like soldiers about to engage in a daring hunt in a deserted forest.
It must be very serious, I said to myself.
“To a hospital in General Trias, Cavite” I told the first cab driver who halted outside our small, white gate when he inquired where we’re headed at around ten on a Sunday evening. “Please, it’s an emergency, sir.”
“I’m not going south” he answered. And just like that with one of the side windows still half-open, he hastily left.
A huge weight of our exasperation and distress vanished when the next cab driver accepted our pleas. He had brought us to a terminal in Pasay City where we instantly found a bus that took us to our destination.
While travelling, thoughts came rushing on my mind like bolts of lightning in a stormy sky: it’s kuya Jun Jun and our memories together. Yes, our late-night conversations about religion, spirituality, wisdom, mysteries, science and technology, work. His brilliance and depth on a range of topics is impeccable. Tears abruptly rolled down my face. My mother did not witness it.
When we arrived at the hospital, my mother and I were met with stories on what had transpired earlier that day. Plates flying in the air. Chicken tinola splattering all over. Convulsion. Lips turning black. Eyes moving involuntarily. Wailing children. Panic. Chaos.
But Emergency Rooms, ICUs, Dialysis Centers, and others put everything in perspective. In those moments that you’re encapsulated by impenetrable brick structures painted white all over, everything boils down to that quiet conversation between you and God. The rest of the universe becomes irrelevant: traffic and scandals on EDSA, inflation, MRT woes, #MeToo, possibilities with the person you admire most, child abuse, fake news, typhoons, President Duterte, war on drugs, Facebook and Instagram, poverty, corruption, politics, education, South West Monsoon, career aspirations, a taxicab’s plate number. You forget about them like transitory slides in your memory not to invalidate their value but to solve and face what’s urgent. Maybe, it’s the brain’s natural response in emergency situations.
You’ve probably been there before. You asked why and wondered why it all happened. Yes, why it had to be you or your family.
You know all the answers to these inquiries by heart, but still, there’s a strange, ineluctable sensation when you’re amid it all – existing, breathing, and convincing yourself to be brave in the challenge given to you. You’re reminded that this life is just a fleeting illusion; that you’re a humble traveler; and that this may come to an end in a snap. Today, you’re a towering figure of physique and fitness; tomorrow could be a different story. It’s not promised.
You hope. You say your prayer without anybody noticing. You reach out to a higher being in spite of all your flaws, faults, and shortcomings, Because the situation is beyond the grasp of your hands, of your humanity, of everyone who knows you.
Then, you pause. You can see the minute, fine details. Paths become clearer. Because you believe that everything happens for a reason. You try to make sense of the test you’re faced with. With the waves of life arriving from every direction, it’s facile to forget the essence of one’s existence. Sometimes, in order for us to be reawakened and to reevaluate our decisions, our steps, and our mindset, inexplicable events have to transpire. And right there, in the mist of confusion, doubts, and tears, is where we can only genuinely ruminate what we’re made of.
In the hit thriller movie, A Quiet Place, a family must live life in silence while hiding from sightless extraterrestrial creatures with hypersensitive hearing, indestructible armored skin and attack anything that makes noise. In parallel to the reality, there are monsters in life that we have to deal with whether we like them or not. We have no idea how they look like, their form, or how they would affect us, but to survive and get through them, we have to stick with our principles and with our loved ones as a unit with trust, courage, and faith.
In the end, after I had convinced myself to stand in front of the painting and equably fixed it in its place, the doctor informed me that kuya was no longer in the critical state. I expeditiously thanked God for his help and mercy. Then, I took a second look at the painting and discovered that there was a total of twenty-eight kaleidoscopic koi swimming around the imaginary cylinder. To my astonishment, it’s the same number of years I just turned to carry across my name on a frigid morning on my birthday. A coincidence? I refuse to think so. For me, it’s an incalculable gift sent from heaven.
‘Sports breathes from hope and to engage in sports is a way to relieve the different forms of stress of life. However, if used the improper way, it can be lethal. A promise of solace can be turned into a nightmare that can haunt the minds of people. That’s exactly what you did, Kuya.’
Dear Kuya Manny,
In a true Filipino fashion, can I call you ‘Kuya’ since I’ve always seen you as an older brother? How are you? How are the bruises? I hope you’re recovering well.
I learned that you had another bout when my sister’s husband called and inquired about its result while we’re having lunch last Sunday.
“Have you watched the fight?” my sister asked while holding her smartphone. “Who won?”
“What fight?” I responded.
“The Pacquiao fight” she replied. “You don’t know?”
I paused for a moment not just because of cluelessness but also because every little reason why I stopped caring about any news about you all came back to me. The horror you single-handedly inflicted into my consciousness three years ago saw the light of the tunnel again. Piece by piece. Detail by detail. Pound for pound.
May 3, 2015. Sunday. “The Fight of the Century.” It’s you versus Floyd Mayweather Jr. SM Megamall Cinema 3. Pay per view. 2 tickets. I was sitting next to my younger brother Ronnel. The 12-round match has ended. Jimmy Lennon Jr. announced the winner. Cheers were replaced by sighs. Nobody wanted to leave the theater. We were shocked. “Is that it?” the old man sitting across me shouted in exasperation. We waited for the climax of the movie pictured mentally by hundreds of millions of fans all over the world: Mayweather, the nemesis – blank-faced, defeated on the canvas after being hit by you in a barrage of uppercuts and right hooks. It never happened.
No, it’s not that we lost that made it unforgettable. It’s the difficult truth hidden behind the curtain that consumed me. You made me despise boxing. The sport died for me on that day.
During a post-fight interview, you revealed that you had entered that fight with a pre-existing shoulder injury and then further injured that area during the fourth round of the contest. When I heard this, my heart wanted to explode. I couldn’t believe it. It felt like I have been deceived with my two eyes wide open by you, the same man who had told in his pre-fight interview: “Don’t get nervous… I’m the one fighting, so relax.”
I watched every possible discussion that one can view online because of the hype everyone has poured for that momentous event. Boxing greats, analysts, and even superstars from other sports became involved and gave their take on who would emerge victorious. It was billed as the modern era’s Joe Frazier versus Muhammad Ali contest. But nobody saw it coming – the lie of the century.
Kuya, it was the first time in my entire life that I decided to buy tickets and watch a fight of yours on pay per view. I had watched all your previous fights on tv and on Youtube. To me and probably just like the million others around the world, it was an attempt to be part of history; to be able to tell myself decades later, if God will permit, that I was there with you in every blow, in every jab, in every hook. It was my humble way of supporting you. But again, I was wrong. You and your camp had a different view the entire time. The world expected a clash of titans with no injury report divulged to the public. Everyone assumed that you were at 100% or almost at the peak of your strength and so tickets have been sold out.
Kuya Manny, a few days after your Mayweather fight, I tried to convince myself that you had hidden the truth for the fight to not be postponed because the other camp might use it a reason to back out. I understand that you had been luring Mayweather for the fight to be realized for so many years. Is that more important than your integrity, reputation and dignity as a man? And just like that, you moved on from one fight to another as if nothing happened.
Sports breathes from hope and to engage in sports is a way to relieve the different forms of stress of life. However, if used the improper way, it can be lethal. A promise of solace can be turned into a nightmare that can haunt the minds of people. That’s exactly what you did, Kuya.
But who am I compared to your greatness? Why should I hold a grudge to you after everything that you’ve done? Is it too hard to forgive another human being and forget all the heartaches?
Whenever I see you in the news or whenever your name surfaces in my conversations with my colleagues and friends, I remember how you made me feel. You brought another exceptional dimension to the word “Filipino” in the international stage. You’re “The Filipino Pride” and “The People’s Champ” and you’ve shown the world what we’re made of.
Yours is a beautiful rags-to-riches story: a mighty warrior who became affluent because of his grit, passion, persistence, and determination. As a storyteller, I fell in love with it. Is it too much to ask for a story book ending in your part?
In his final NBA game, your good friend Los Angeles Lakers superstar Kobe Bryant astoundingly scored 60 points on 22 of 50 shooting against Utah Jazz in 2016. A number of spectators were standing and jumping in the Staples Center arena out of excitement. The mood was festive. Hollywood A-listers were in attendance. He was blessed with an epic ending which is rare for sports legends in history. He retired a winner. After bagging your 60th career win, you have the power to retire a champion.
At 2:43 of the 7th round, you convincingly showed the world what’s left in your tank after defeating the much younger Argentine boxer Lucas Matthysse by TKO and earned the WBA Welterweight title.
But just like a younger brother to his kuya, I hope you retire now from boxing and enjoy more time with your family and loved ones. I’m worried that you might seriously get hurt on your next fight and bid goodbye to the sport you’re passionate about because your mind and body have given up on you. I’m concerned about how your wife Jinkee, your kids, and mommy Dionisia would react if they’ll see you in an unspeakable state. You have nothing else to prove.
Also, please reach out to the LGBTQ+ community and all of those you have offended before. Embrace them with open arms and patiently search for the common ground for us to move forward. I believe you have the heart to spark a real change to the sufferings of our fellowmen. I pray that your health will be at its summit to battle against the more valuable, salient, and pressing issues and challenges that we face as a people in the future. Because your loss is our loss and your win is our win.
Finally, I hope you lend your ears this time.
Sincerely yours,
Ben
(Various versions of this piece appeared on The Sports Column, Read Boxing, Boxing Insider, and United States Sports Academy’s The Sport Digest in July, 2018.)
NO, I’M not going to ask you to forget those who caused you pain; those who made you feel small; those who crumpled your person like a piece of paper with their declarations and actions. No, not now.
You know deep within you that you treated them fairly. You undressed your soul under the scorching heat of their presence even if little by little, you’re being burnt. When you smiled at them and whispered your dreams, all you were thinking was the future you’ll subtly paint together on a blank canvas; you were firmly holding your brush without knowing that they were about to let go of theirs.
You accepted them for their persistence. There was a radiant glow in your eyes. They cherished you more than anyone you crossed paths with. And for the first time, someone stared at you the same way you peer at the sunset. Heartfelt. Intimate. Poetic…
You remember everything like it happened yesterday: endless late-night conversations; surprises; secrets; passwords; contact numbers; favorite song, color, artist, coffee flavor, and travel destination; and yes, surreal moments.
You thought they were the one. You saw the signs you were looking for since childhood. You’ve been showered with sunrises. You sincerely whispered to the universe that if you’ll ever meet them, you’ll love them with all you have, with every cell of your body. You expected to set sail smoothly with them while holding their hands and you found yourself in a pit of desperation when you realized that you’ve mistaken; that everything was a fleeting illusion to your preconceived idea of romantic love.
Yes, doubts pierced through your heart. You shut off your closest friends and family and sought for an end to your sufferings. You imagined things you’ve never anticipated to ever invade your awareness.
They disrespected and betrayed you. They didn’t hear your pleas. They were self-absorbed. You convinced yourself that you’re supposed to suffer because that’s what the protagonists in some of the famed movies, novellas, and stories dictated the whole of humanity to be. Suddenly, you could no longer recognize who you are. Every snippet of your conviction, principle, and idealism was gone. And in your core, a burrow scored by their absence lurks like a fictional character who’s about to consume the remaining rays of hope you have. It was dark, murky, and leaden. But please, do not give in.
Let your pillows be witnesses to your grief. Cry and weep and wail until the river of tears dry up. Be consumed with the majestic beauty of literature and the arts. Courageously go on an adventure in other fields and dimensions you’ve never encountered before. Reinvigorate your to-do list. Do things at your own pace. Listen.
Listen to your friends and family when they attempt to comfort you. They’ve always been there for you at the glimpses of your best performances and achievements. Don’t deprive them to be with you at your worst. They saw you at the extent you can never visualize and translate into words in the past; they’ll surely accept you.
Listen to the one gazing at you from the future: the fiercer you. What is life if we get everything we want and prayed for at the moment we expected them to greet us? Where’s thrill, excitement, and pleasure in not challenging the maelstrom of hardships around us? Didn’t we question everything at one point, our decisions, our gifts, our value as a person?
Because today, I’m not asking you to forget the hurt and pain and trouble they inflicted on you; no, not even to show you the path and steps to forgiveness. Instead, may this remind you that there’s someone who believes in you; that in time, all wounds will be healed.
Meaning breathes from tales of triumphs, overcoming of odds, and facing life’s battles head-on. I hope you embrace the process and rediscover yourself all over again. And when the ashes of frustrations of the past subside on the horizon, may your desire to be a comeback story the same way millions of people on the face of this planet strive to do each day overwhelm your heart with interminable virility.
This is a gasping proof that you are not alone.
(Thought Catalog published this piece on the 3rd of May 2018.)
WHEN YOU at long last met her, don’t expect her to instantly reciprocate your smile, affection, and care. She’s been through a lot and she wouldn’t deftly bare the fountain of her being for you to quench your thirst for every imaginable speck of curiosity you have about her. She’s witnessed them all: the mundane, the humdrum, and the lackluster. The passing of time made her deeply understand the footnotes for every arrival and departure; that the goodbyes of some are inevitable and to be replaced in someone’s heart is a thriving possibility.
When you ultimately decided to solemnly know her, expect her to push you away. Prepare not to cruise on a newly furnished highway complete with post lights and signs but be introduced into a concrete jungle of questions and uncertainties. There will be bricks and tests and sobbing. She easily trusted some people before but they betrayed her and like the morning mist along the shores, no trace of them can be found anymore. Yes, they left without any explanation with all their vows and promises.
When your paths at length crossed, always remind yourself that you only have one chance to be with her. In a world clad with so many options and choices, it’s facile and tempting to believe that someone will come along after her; that there’s a better, more alluring, and more brilliant soul waiting for you; that beyond the horizon is somebody else who’s a better fit to your personality. The truth is, there will always be someone more quick-witted, funnier, and exquisite than her. But remember that she’s more than the generalizations you can imagine. She’s greater than every conceivable affirmative adjective that your mind can pinpoint and grasp.
When your hearts eventually encounter each other, do everything to keep her. Focus on the little things and then to the complex, the grandeur, the complicated differences in your beliefs, principles, and roots. There’s excitement in novelty, in the realization that after a long time of waiting, you’re in each other’s arms. The days and the nights will be unlike before. The sun will shine brighter, everything will feel lighter, and the moon and stars will be clothed with poetry and rhymes. The clouds will have rejuvenated meanings and symbolism and together, you’ll joyfully search for their formations rudderless flowing above. Suddenly, you’ll dance with her under the pouring rain with a kind of music not dictated by external devices but by the voices entangled within you to celebrate life, to forget for a moment all the worries and frustrations both of you should endure.
When you, at last, see her, you may sense discomfort, banishment, and dismissal on her part. Over time, she has convinced herself that she won’t be needing anybody else in her life. She’s strong and confident and equipped with her dreams and passions. Doubts will enter your consciousness on whether you’ll pursue her or not. Recognize that if she’s gone this far, why would she crave for someone to be with her? But no matter how strenuous she is, be there for her. Be courageous and determined. Show your sincerity. Cheer her up, support her, and open her mind to a world she’s never been to before. Prove to her that being alone can be a thing of the past; that you have arrived.
Because when you finally found her, no matter how thirsty and yearning and hankering you are to discover the reservoir of the fountain of her being, you have to be patient. Brace yourself. Stand next to her. Pitch your most cherished coin. Listen. Splatter…
And when you’re both ready, drink.
(Thought Catalog published this piece on the 19th of April 2018.)
IF YOU love her without pretense, you will welcome the thick, towering walls she had built for herself even before you met her. You’ll not try to shatter or see them as adversaries you have to defeat to find her, to finally have a glimpse of the beguiling soul contently breathing in its innermost and deepest realm. Instead, you’ll embrace them as august fragments of her being. You’ll be patient until she greets you with her infectious laughter and beaming smile because you never deserted her.
If you really love her, you will not entertain the idea of dating anybody else who obviously showed their intent to be with you, to talk to you, to get to know you better. Just the idea of you being with someone else will haunt you. You’ll mightily close your eyes and shut your ears whenever a temptation knocks on your door and windows and imagination. Yes, she’s onerous to decipher but you’ll not stop and give her up just because you’re uncertain about how she feels about you. You’ll not make excuses to forget the words and promises you uttered while holding her hands when you were starting. You’ll hope and wait for her ‘Yes’. You’ll continue to court her even after she confessed that the feeling is mutual.
If you truly love her, you will not leave her hanging. You’ll be brave to tell her how you feel even if your whole body is trembling and the cup of coffee or hot lemon tea you’re holding is splattering brought by her presence. You’ll be honest with her even if you’re scared of being rejected because you know she’s worth it.
If you fervently love her, you will accept her flaws and imperfections. You’ll not use them as your reserved ammunitions and weapons in times of misunderstanding and quarrel. You’ll not bring up her past for you know it will hurt her. You’ll think about what’s best for her and treat her as a valuable vessel, a gift, an answered prayer. You’ll forgive her the same way you exonerate yourself when you commit mistakes and shortcomings.
If you earnestly love her, you will recognize her talents, dreams, and aspirations. You’ll not regard her as a blind, emotionless follower to all your wants and needs. You’ll honor and respect her all the time and view her as a partner in facing each morning’s challenges and surprises. You’ll celebrate her triumphs as yours and will be an unfailing shoulder to cry on in times of grief. You’ll support her in her own endeavors for you know that her success and yours are key ingredients for your connection to continue to flourish and bloom to a greater form.
If you authentically love her, you will set aside your ego and will listen to her thoughts and views. You’ll not degrade her person or abuse her confidence in you. You’ll be transparent in all your dealings and you’ll not hide critical information to her that has a direct effect on your relationship. You’ll safeguard her trust all days of your life.
If you seriously love her, you will shower her with your warmth, artistry, and poetry. With joy, you’ll write her essays and lyrics and letters not just on days or nights you feel like it. You’ll secretly take photographs of her or paint the minute details of her personage on a canvas. Yes, there will be times when you’re occupied, tired, and fed up with life’s expectations and demands, but you’ll make time to be with her even if she doesn’t ask for it. You’ll relentlessly remind her of her beauty, of her strengths, of her brilliance when you sense that she forgets them. You’ll vibrantly reminisce the moments in your past when she made you feel unsure whether she’ll accept you or not; how she single-handedly brought you into a peculiar world you’ve never been before. You’ll sing her songs and dance with her when she’s weary and frustrated and jaded; when failures unceasingly try to put her down and make her doubt the glaring possibilities of tomorrow.
And if you genuinely and sincerely love her, you will be faithful in her presence or absence; whether you hear her voice or not; whether she’s sitting next to you or hundreds if not thousands of miles away.
Because if the kind of love you have for her is pure and untainted, it will reveal itself over time and if you’re fated to be together, she will stay with you with all her thick, towering walls vanished forever.
(Thought Catalog published this piece on the 3rd of April 2018.)
‘Some intellectuals claim that we are not a reading people, but I believe that’s inaccurate’
HAVE YOU ever been to a novel place where you felt like you want to stay there forever?
That is exactly what I experienced when I arrived at the World Trade Center in Pasay City more than a week ago to chase the first ever Big Bad Wolf event in the country.
It’s the brainchild of BookXcess leads Andrew Yap and Jacqueline Ng, whose main mission is to extend the doors of opportunity to book readers and book lovers who normally couldn’t afford to buy one.
As soon as I stepped foot on the entrance of the building at around one in the morning, a pleasant aroma greeted me which emanated from the smorgasbord of books stationed per category across the 2-hectare floor area of the venue. The chill in my body was something I’ve never experienced before from the throngs of book sales I had been to.
“This one is different,” I said to myself. “A glimpse of heaven.”
I can still recall how my eyes glowed like the sun when I saw the sea of people walking and running and pushing their carts with the same exhilaration I’ve been curbing inside for days leading to opening day. I even thought for a moment that I was in an airport when I saw that some of the shoppers were carrying large bags and boxes, as if they’re going to travel to a remote destination or roam around the world.
The mood was convivial. Pop songs encompassed the enclosed space. The ushers wore their best smiles and first-rate patience. A stranger handed me his own basket. I unhurriedly checked the piles of titles from the right wing of the entryway to the section close to the center.
I read the texts written on the back covers. I smelled them. Secretly. Memoirs. Novels. Non-fiction.
I bought a total of 8 books for about P1,800: Asne Seierstad’s One of Us, David J. Linden’s Touch, Jon Ronson’s The Men Who Stare at Goats, Chris Kyle’s American Sniper, Scott Christianson’s 100 Documents that Changed the World, Michael Ondaatje’s In the Skin of A Lion, Divisadero, and a winner of the Booker Prize, The English Patient.
While the books being sold at the Big Bad Wolf are “remaindered” and launched about 6 months or one year ago (which is why they are priced 60% to 80% lower than in regular bookstores), I still can’t help but feel sorry for the scarce presence of Filipino literature in this mammoth book sale.
As I was about to pay at the cashier, I thought: “Would it be possible to see Filipino authors’ works being sold and showcased at a colossal and noteworthy affair like this someday? Will they be received the same way as J.K. Rowling and R.R. Martin?”
Truth be told, most of the of books I currently have were written by foreign authors. While I read F.H. Batacan, Bob Ong, Laurel Fantauzzo, and Miguel Syjuco, my ignorance on the content, tone, voice and structure of the worlds created by National Artists for Literature F. Sionil Jose, Nick Joaquin, Cirilo F. Bautista and the others is undeniable. I was in high school when I first heard of their names because we were required to read snippets of their artistry in our Filipino class. But when we graduated, and with no quizzes to take, time passed by, and I forgot about them.
When you visit a branch of the Phlippines’ biggest bookstore these days, the themes of their top selling local books revolve around these 3: how to fall in love, how to move on, and how to be loved by your crush. These are the thin, self-help, mind-numbing books that can leave one to ask: “Hanggang dito na lang ba tayo (Is this all we’re capable of)?“
The day after I watched his interview with Boy Abunda for National Arts Month, I swiftly searched for copies of National Artist Virgilio Almario’s poem collections in a luxurious mall just a couple of kilometers away from our home. I was appalled that I did not find any trace of his genius; instead I saw Leavs, Faudets, and Kaurs taking over the shelves.
In the face of globalization, English is considered as the most valuable means of communication. As Filipinos, we take pride in our level of proficiency in this language. But with it comes the growing practice of degrading our roots and creativity, and the maltreatment of Filipino poems, essays, and novels, labelling them as corny, subpar, and insignificant. We have so many writers and creators who are discouraged by the feedback they receive from the people around them. There’s no money in writing. It’s useless. You’ll just be a slave all your life. Don’t waste your time in nonsense. Art is dead.
Jose Rizal once said: “On this battlefield man has no better weapon than his intelligence, no other force but his heart.”
Literature and the arts are the soul and heart of a country. They help us unravel some of the unspoken, subdued, and hidden truths around us so that we may understand ourselves better and be introduced to the richness of our history, which will fuel us to act, reevaluate our views, or change our course if the situation demands for it.
If we do not embrace our own gifts and treasures, and if we forget who we are, we may end up cruising on a highway with no direction or maps as references, and unknowingly get into a collision with our fellow travellers.
Some intellectuals claim that we are not a reading people, but I believe that’s inaccurate. I am convinced that we’re still searching for that spark of transcendence, of the drive to take another sound, earnest look at our dying local publishing industry.
We have to change our mindset that the works of foreign authors are innately superior and finer and more magnificent than what we can produce. We have to debunk the colonial mentality that’s deeply ingrained in our culture, or else we’ll live in an endless search for our identity.
Not everyone can declare that they ran after a Big Bad Wolf at one in the morning on a Saturday. With all the courage I have, I did, and I hope you do, too. Forever.
(This piece has been published on Rappler.com’s IMHO on February 24, 2018.)
‘As I held a cup of chili-pili ice cream with the Cagsawa Ruins as my backdrop, I glanced at Kuya. The unfamiliarity and awkwardness forged by his long absence vanished instantaneously.’
WHENEVER I see Mayon volcano in the news these days because of its eruption, I don’t just see ashes and smoke compulsively kissing the sky or lava flowing down its slope. I don’t just sense the fear, pain, or panic of its surrounding residents. It also reminds me of my eldest brother.
In May of last year, the day after one of my sisters got married in Daet, Camarines Norte, I, together with my eldest brother Kuya Oni, his wife and two kids, and my youngest brother Ronnel went on a journey to transform the Google images in our heads into a real one of Mayon, one of the nominees for 2008 New 7 Wonders of Nature located in Albay in the Bicol region about 500 kilometers south of Manila.
I can still clearly remember how I jumped from one humongous rock to another in my attempt to capture the quintessential shot of its perfect cone as Kazuo Ishiguro’s captivating words in his book, The Remains of the Day, flashed in my memory: “What is pertinent is the calmness of beauty, its sense of restraint. It is as though the land knows of its own beauty, its own greatness, and feels no need to shout it.”
It was not a spur-of-the-moment decision but a planned adventure to witness with our own eyes Mayon’s grandiosity. Spending time with our kuya – an overseas Filipino worker (OFW) in Qatar – is unpredictable. Sometimes, it would take two or 3 years before we see each other again.
“Who would like to join us tomorrow?” Kuya Oni asked the other members of my family. “Let’s finalize it tonight.”
“Where are we going?” I asked him with excitement.
“To Mayon, Ben,” he answered. “Prepare your things, we’ll leave early in the morning.”
“At last, we’ll see the ‘perfect cone’!” I said.
This conversation may just be a mundane for you. But not for us.
When my father died about a couple of decades ago, Kuya had to mature fast and help my mother in taking care of the family. He was still in college then and I was 9. I was oblivious to the encumbrance that had been swiftly heaped on his shoulders. I thought my father would return someday, that he just had to rest for a while. But after months passed by, little by little, the reality of his death dawned on me.
Kuya was a force of nature, a stratovolcano like Mayon if you will, with his periodic eruptions. In his attempt to discipline us, he imposed his own version of martial law at home. Don’t play outside when it’s already dark or when it’s raining. Take a nap in the afternoon after school. Don’t get into a fight with your siblings. No noise or chitchat. Buy me this and that. When I call out your name, run and stand in front of me.
When you’re a child and you’re forced to stay inside the house while your playmates are enjoying basketball or you hear them giggling and shouting at the top of their lungs under the pouring rain, you question everything even though you’re frightened. Why is he doing this to us?
We didn’t talk that much. He was preoccupied with a lot of things: work, relationship, friends. Looking back, I couldn’t recall a time he divulged his true self or his softer side to me. Rather, there was a wall I couldn’t get through. But as I grew older, I understood why he was like that.
He had to project a strong image for us or else we could have broken down. We needed a source of inspiration, courage, and strength and he provided all that. He finished his degree on time and he is continuously developing himself as a professional in a foreign land. In college, he was considered as one of the outstanding students in his electrical engineering class. The back cover of his thesis is scribbled with praises on how well he handled himself with his peers, professors, and yes, even admirers. He achieved a lot despite the financial challenges he had to face.
During our trip to Mayon, while driving, he made jokes about the distinct smell which emanated from the rows of carabao poop at the side of the road. Like a TV announcer, he gave a blow-by-blow update on the remaining time before we reached our destination. We screamed when we had a first look of the cone-shaped land formation at the right side of our car as we cruised the highway. But seconds later, to our dismay, the vision disappeared as clouds devoured the volcano.
As I held a cup of chili-pili ice cream with the Cagsawa Ruins as my backdrop, I glanced at Kuya. The unfamiliarity and awkwardness forged by his long absence vanished instantaneously. I saw him smile while he carried his daughter and I smiled back at them. It was then that it occurred to me how much he has changed in his ways, actions, and temper. I sensed calmness, peace, and serenity in his eyes. Time and distance indubitably help us transform ourselves for the better.
While Mayon continues to spew multi-storey plumes of smoke and ash and hurl pyroclastic material down its slopes, I don’t just see its wrath. What it reminds me more than anything is that one crisp afternoon in May of last year. It was that peculiar, tranquil moment when I, together with my eldest kuya, stared at Mayon with a sense of hope that someday, if given a chance, we’ll go on another adventure together, share stories of triumphs and failures, and invigorate the sleeping strands between us hanging above the vast ocean or the incalculable, free-flowing molten lava.
(This piece has been published on Rappler.com’s IMHO on February 3, 2018.)
‘The question then is: Will they let their names be dragged into a pit of shame by illegally operating or by cheating the Filipino public? Will they directly sell their integrity to foreign influence? Is it worth the risk after their years of “bar none” services?’
IT’S FRIDAY and the company where I was working was on dress down. I chose to wear a pair of jeans and a black shirt. But as I was riding the northbound MRT-3 train, I looked around and wondered if there were other passengers wearing the same colour of shirt as I do. There were few of them and I sensed that they were also curious. Yes, curious if my wearing black is a form of support on the Black Friday Protest for Freedom action organised by the National Union of Journalists of the Philippines (NUJP). The NUJP earlier severely criticized the Securites and Exchange Commission’s (SEC) decision revoking the registration of the leading news website Rappler.
In their website, it’s indicated that Rappler comes from the root words “rap” (to discuss) and “ripple” (to make waves). Without a doubt, they are making waves these days not of stories of various personalities they cover, or of news reports about other entities, but the legality of their existence. When the SEC and Rappler issue broke, I sulked. I couldn’t believe that such incident can happen to one of the media organisations I look up to. Some of the most respected, prominent, and award-winning journalists and writers I know work for or are connected with Rappler. Maria Ressa. Marites Vitug. Chay Hofileña. Glenda Gloria. Patricia Evangelista.
The question then is: Will they let their names be dragged into a pit of shame by illegally operating or by cheating the Filipino public? Will they directly sell their integrity to foreign influence? Is it worth the risk after their years of “bar none” services?
While the SEC decision was not final and executory, with the political climate the Philippines has, the possibility for the case to reach the halls of the Supreme Court is not startling. But online forums and the comments section have been filled with opinions. For them, Rappler has reached its final destination.
“Maria Ressa is wearing a victim’s cloak” a netizen commented. “In need of attention just like the previous president.” Some of my Facebook friends also despised Rappler for their alleged violation. Suddenly, constitutional experts rose on the occasion. They are doomed, one added. But did they first read the 21-page decision of the SEC before expressing their thoughts online? Did they examine the facts before judging those who side and believe in Rappler as ‘Yellowtards’ and fools?
I’ve seen it before and I am seeing it again. In our attempt to simplify things, we resort to one-liners, labels, and generalizations. These do not accomplish anything but create more divisions.
In his book Blink, renowned journalist and author Malcolm Gladwell wrote: “We have, as human beings, a storytelling problem. We’re a bit too quick to come up with explanations for things we don’t really have an explanation for.”
When Rappler published my opinion piece about the subpar MRT-3 train services, some of the commenters were quick to assume that I was a paid writer whose objective was to discredit the actions of the government in addressing the transport system issue. They even judged me as just another Rappler writer who doesn’t see the good in the current administration, its achievements. Without conducting a simple Google search or patiently reading the whole piece, they came up with their own conclusions. These are classic examples of false and uninformed accusations online.
Because the truth is I care about my country. We write because we believe that something can be done, that there’s still hope, and that those in power didn’t fully shut their ears to listen to another point of view, to fresh perspectives. For a democracy to work, there should be checks and balances and the media play a valuable role in guarding and being the platform for people to practice their right to speech and expression. Yes, they put their lives, their principles on the line.
With everything’s that’s going on, it’s easy to be swayed by the popular, the majority opinion. Some choose to stay silent because of fear and inconvenience. If indeed Rappler intentionally committed grave contraventions against the provisions of the constitution and that they should be held liable, let the courts decide about it. If they published malicious articles beyond the ethical standards of journalism, which are meant to degrade or disparage a public official and put him or her in bad light, file cases. Let’s recognise the proper forums backed by existing laws and give emphasis on due process.
Opposing opinions can coexist without us losing our humanity in the process with respect. It can be done without grappling the pens and the mouths of our fellowmen who cry for truth, freedom and justice whether we agree with them or not. Because in the end, while we are busy figuring out how others are different from us with all their ideals and perspectives, we forget to listen, to read, to research, and ultimately, to convince ourselves that in times like this, it’s best to pause and pray for our country with a black shirt on or whatever colour we believe we represent.
‘We read news reports like this without blinking an eye. But do we ever ask ourselves where our values have gone?’
WE WERE high school freshmen then. The day before summer vacation was to start, my seat mate Sam handed me a small, thin package. “It’s for you, Ben,” he said. “Open it when you get home.” Wrapped in intermediate paper and placed inside a red plastic bag, it was evidently a video compact disc.
An animated film, like “Toy Story,” maybe? I asked him.
“Just watch it when nobody’s around,” he said. But why? I wondered to myself.
Nonplussed, I ran to the lone room on the second floor as soon as I got home. I took the VCD out of my bag, removed its wrap, and noted that it had some scratches and had no title or picture on either side. I inserted it in the player and saw that it was working. I was all by myself and was thrilled at the prospect of seeing Buzz Lightyear in action.
But it was not “Toy Story” or any other film of the same genre. I saw foreigners. Man. Woman. Naked. Loud sound. Moaning. Sex act…
I turned off the VCD player as quickly as I could, guilt overwhelming my consciousness. What did I just see? I asked myself. I couldn’t move for a few minutes. While blankly staring at the ceiling, I placed my right hand over my heart. It was beating rapidly, as if I were in a marathon. I thought of my parents, my brothers, my sisters.
In our household, as in most other Filipino households, talk about sex, sexuality, and pornography is taboo. It seems to be embedded in our culture to not mention or discuss these topics in the open. They are deemed dirty and dark, unfit for discussion. But isn’t there a disconnect between what we think we believe and what we do?
Go to any commercial area these days in Metro Manila and you will see a different kind of commodity being sold. Yes, you will see fish, pork, or beef presented in a fashion to attract customers in the wet market, but you will also see pornographic DVDs arranged by category on wooden tables stationed in front of fast-food outlets and restaurants: Asian, American, Latin.
In some instances, the trade in such DVDs occurs just a few meters away from a police station. It’s as if this trade is an accepted part of reality, and police authorities have no business hindering this dark business from prospering. But more than what we witness in the real world, there are porn sites galore in the internet, not to mention the occasional pair of naked breasts popping up out of nowhere.
According to Pornhub’s 2017 data, the Philippines leads the world in time spent watching porn, at 13 minutes and 28 seconds on the average. And yes, the Philippines has been acing this category for a number of years now.
We read news reports like this without blinking an eye. But do we ever ask ourselves where our values have gone?
David Segal wrote in “Does Porn Hurt Children?” (New York Times, March 2014): “‘One of our recommendations is that children should be taught about relationships and sex at a young age,’ Professor Horvath continued. ‘If we start teaching kids about equality and respect when they are 5 or 6 years old, by the time they encounter porn in their teens, they will be able to pick out and see the lack of respect and emotion that porn gives us. They’ll be better equipped to deal with what they are being presented with.’”
This recommendation is of a piece with what’s written in Proverbs 22:6 (King James version): “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.”
About a year ago, then Health Secretary Paulyn Ubial announced a plan of action to block pornographic websites in the country as part of efforts to prevent the spread of HIV-AIDS, especially among the youth. This move could have reduced the risk to Filipino adults and children posed by unsafe sexual activities resulting from exposure to porn. But it did not push through.
Humans are not designed to lust after porn models or actors online or in porn DVDs; we are designed to fall in love with one individual with respect and sincerity under God’s guidance. Our body structure and emotions support this. While scientific evidence on the gruesome effects of porn continue to be studied, the safest step to take by young people is to shy away from it to prevent possible addiction to it. If Filipinos take pride in calling ourselves a Christian nation, let’s live by its standards. We should not patronize porn and treat it as part of our lives. Let us make a stand.
Up to this day, I wonder what my seat mate Sam’s intentions were that afternoon when he handed me the porn VCD. If I would be given a chance to talk to him again, I’d tell him how I momentarily froze in shock at what I was seeing. I’d ask him why. But with all the questions, one thing is certain: It’s not supposed to be like this. Because we are not born this way.
(This piece had first appeared in Young Blood, Opinion, Philippine Daily Inquirer on January 14, 2018. Two days later, Thailand’s “The Nation” republished it.)
AS THE missing posters of 17-year-old Ica Policarpio with the hashtag #FindIca went viral on social media sites, speculations ruled the public’s consciousness. Sympathy poured for Ica’s family, which has been magnified and deemed serious with the participation of some celebrities in search of a teenager they do not know personally. But with it were excruciating judgments.
She surely eloped with her boyfriend, one declared. Worse, another one added, she’s been kidnapped, raped, killed and then dumped in a creek or river somewhere just like the others.
When I read these pronouncements, I sulked. I linked my hands at the back of my head with disgust and my appetite to finish reading Miguel Syjuco’s book titled Ilustrado during the holidays has been halted. I went into a familiar state nowadays of those who consume social media for entertainment, news, and expression. It’s the state of puzzlement with the current condition of human behavior, motivations, and values tainted by indifference, insensitivity and lack of natural affection that we witness online. And then, questions arose out of nowhere.
How did some of us become this harsh online? When did some of us start fashioning careless, lethargic comments to our fellowmen without having full knowledge of the context, the background, and the facts of the trending topic? Why didn’t we consider the subject herself, of her possible reaction after the smoke vanished and the stream of emotions died down? Why did we forget the cinch fact that Ica is a minor and must be given special care and treatment?
Days after interviews with some of the members of her family have been conducted and the online world still starving with answers, a netizen’s tweet helped find her.
It’s the 23rd of December. A selfie captured her sitting behind a group of girls while reading a book just outside a coffee shop in a mall. She was all by herself and was later found crying at a carinderia in San Pablo City. Evidently, she’s lost and was going through a “deep emotional distress”.
It was a sweet, mirthful news which ended her more than 60-kilometer journey from Muntinlupa City to Laguna province. Her father immediately asked for understanding and appealed for privacy. But it wasn’t a fairy tale that saw its conclusion with a simple “happily ever after.” No, not when your sympathizers at one point have been fed with fake news and lies in the past.
Reactions surfaced on my feed. Triumph. Empathy. Tears. Smileys. Doubt. Demands. Closure.
From a beloved figure, some people described Ica as “papansin,” “bratinella,” and “spoiled brat” among others. Her name has been ridiculed and dragged to the pit of shame online. We deserve an explanation, one of my Facebook friends posted with a hint that Ica probably had taken on a dare called ‘Game of 72’ which involves challenging a friend to go missing for 72 hours without providing any information or update to the family and make certain they panic.
Have you ever wondered about it?
As we welcomed the new year based on Gregorian calendar, an opinion poll conducted by Gallup International ranked the Philippines as the third-happiest country in the world. This reaffirmed our optimism and belief that there are still millions of reasons to cheer for. But this is being overshadowed by those moments when we find ourselves actively bullying and ridiculing an individual online.
Yes, there are hardships all around us. Yes, we face multisectoral challenges that can never be solved by the strongman in Malacañang alone. Yes, our patience is on the brink of exploding brought by the inefficient services we experience everyday of our lives. Yes, we’re tired. But these do not give us the license to be rude to a stranger online. These do not warrant us to be unfair, to be blinded to reason and justice.
The comments section and our “What’s on your mind” space became our modern day diaries: personal yet at times destructive. We saw avenues for our frustrations, rants, and uninformed opinions to exist. We freely share, post, and treat them as mere constellation of “words” which do not have the capacity to kill someone. But no, we unknowingly commit an unspeakable heinous crime every time we forget that behind each name or photo or poster is a person who just like us has dreams, aspirations, and identity; that similarly, that person has vulnerabilities and is facing battles deep within him or her.
In every interaction, online or not, politeness, respect and delicadeza are valuable. Before we post or comment, we should first pause and ask ourselves: Can I tell these to him or her in person?
Ica made us realize how limited our grasp is of the reality, of our understanding of the mental health in our country, and how some of us lose ourselves believing that we are entitled for a clamant, elaborate, and intricate explanation on what really had transpired on a trending topic even if the party we cared for asked for space and privacy.
In the future, God willing, when she’s ready and the pain no longer rests in her heart and soul, Ica may go back and choose to have a glimpse at the news reports, the articles, and the posts with hashtag #FindIca on her disappearance. And on that day, at that moment, I would like to tell her that even if I’m a stranger to her, I would like her to remember that she’s not alone. ‘Every teenager is both a hero and a failure,’ Syjuco said in Ilustrado. ‘When we become adults we have to choose where in the middle we’ll be.’ No matter what, she should never give up. Instead, she should be a hero to herself and those around her. I’m glad she found her way back home. Every time, she should remind herself that with God’s help and mercy, she can.
‘In a chaotic time rife with hypocrisy, deceit, and insincerity, there is no better currency to give to another soul, more importantly to the youth and our children, than the truth about spirituality and faith.’
WHEN I was little, there was one night my childhood friends and I have always waited for. Each year, on Christmas eve, we would hang a sock outside our windows before we go to sleep. I thought that if I’ll pray hard enough to Santa Claus, I would wake up on Christmas morning with my wishes and my dreams granted. And if I was good enough and if the hanging sock won’t be enough to contain all the candies and chocolates and toys that he’ll give out of his good heart, he would replace it with a magical bag with remarkable presents. It never happened. Worse, I thought that he was unfair.
After learning that one of my friends had received way better and more special gifts, such as Playstation and bicycle, than I did, I doubted his love and compassion. Shouldn’t he be considerate to everyone?
And then on the third year of patiently waiting to finally see him, to talk to him, and wondering why he made those decisions in the past, I discovered he doesn’t exist.
Covered in bedding, I stayed up until 3 AM. I stared outside the window in the lone room at the second floor of our house with my eyes partially open. It’s the 25th of December. And little by little my mother, who I thought was soundly sleeping next to me, moved closer to the window and slowly put something in the sock. In a cold Christmas morning, I have met my Santa. No, we did not talk and she did not notice me looking at her. I went to sleep and she embraced me.
This truth came to me as a surprise. But don’t we give Santa Claus, a portly, blithesome, white-bearded imaginary character – sometimes with spectacles – clothed with scarlet coat, too much credit?
Some of us tell our children that they should behave themselves if they want Santa to reward them with gifts on Christmas. While this motivates them to be more cautious and responsible about their actions, we lie to them. We make them believe on something that isn’t true, to a fictional man, who they thought has the capacity to know everything they did all year round to judge whether they are worthy or not. Why do we do this?
As a Catholic nation, we have been exposed to a culture copious with questionable teachings and traditions. From the true date of the birth of Jesus Christ to the manner by which we request saints to pray for our sins and transgressions, we’re deemed clueless. In a Catholic prayer titled Hail Mary, it said: “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
Again, “pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.” Doesn’t it mean that we ask Mary, the mother of the flesh of Jesus Christ, to pray for us? Isn’t there a disconnect between asking a dead person do something for the living? Can the saints help to alleviate our sins and intercede for us? Should we call on other names for us to be forgiven from the unrighteous acts we had committed?
Shielding kids from some truths they can’t process is one thing. But when it comes to matters of the spirit, of faith, and of God, it’s a deprivation of a valuable fact if we’re not going to teach them to directly offer their prayers and thanksgiving to the almighty Father in heaven and not to anybody else. In Philippians 4:6-7 (New International Version), it says: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”
Santa Claus with his sleigh lead by eight reindeers does not have the capacity to know what we’re doing but God does for His eyes are everywhere. In Proverbs 15:3 (NIV), it says: “The eyes of the Lord are everywhere, keeping watch on the wicked and the good.”
If we’re to take God’s place for a moment, won’t we get jealous? Because instead of praising Him, the world, in vicious normalcy, replaced Him in the children’s young minds and hearts with an invented figure, a different name. Deuteronomy 5:7-9 (NIV) says: “You shall have no other gods before me. You shall not make for yourself an image in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below. You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me…”
Neither Paul nor Mary let another human being pray to them. The angels Gabriel and Michael also followed such principle in the Bible. How then can Santa hear our children’s prayers? Aren’t we observing centuries-old traditions for enjoyment, entertainment, and convenience even if we have no idea on their historical and factual background?
In a chaotic time rife with hypocrisy, deceit, and insincerity, there is no better currency to give to another soul, more importantly to the youth and our children, than the truth about spirituality and faith. Gone are the days of being prisoners of the past. If we, the adults, the parents, and the grown-ups are not going to start this revolution deep within us and not stop ourselves from just following the flow without raising questions, who would?
And the recognition of that truth and path is going to be so much more significant to me than what any Santa can present whether he came down from a chimney or not on a cold December morning.
‘But years later, can’t we see the almost similar plot and subplots reverberating in our time?’
AFTER RECEIVING a confirmation email from the cinema manager of a posh mall in the metro that they will be showing the much-awaited film adaptation of F.H. Batacan’s novel Smaller and Smaller Circles for two consecutive weeks, I rushed to check my schedule to buy a ticket on its nationwide release the next day.
I arrived at the cinema early, and got my ticket for the 6:20 pm showing. With no smartphone to utilize the free WI-FI while waiting, I decided to have a look at the latest book titles at the bookstore adjacent to the cinema. I saw Murakamis, Ishiguros, Gladwells, Leavs, Kaurs on the shelves while I was languidly gliding along the rows and rows of books. Then, I was greeted by Smaller.
It has been over a month now since I last finished reading the book the second time. Yes, that was not our first encounter.
In my attempt to start a conversation with Pat – who would turn out to be my senior high school best friend – while we’re waiting for our next class one crisp afternoon, I asked for the theme of the intriguing book she was holding. I was then sitting on the aisle seat behind her, on the second row. While our other classmates were busy throwing crumpled papers in the air, or talking about their treasured online computer game, or reviewing our lessons for the exam the coming week, I was hooked on the book’s front cover showing a face of a strange man in black background. Published in 2002 by the University of the Philippines Press, it’s the UP Jubilee Student Edition of Batacan’s novella.
“It’s about a serial killer in the slums of Payatas” she said. “The poor victims are pre-teen boys. Do you want to have a look?” Thrilled, I responded, “Sure, thanks!”
I flipped through the pages, glimpsed at the texts written on the back cover, and started reading the book.
It was as if I was taken to a familiar place in cinematic details that I couldn’t move. I froze for a moment. My classmates vanished. The noise transformed into silence. The walls of the classroom have been silently destroyed by the maggots coming out of the boy’s body. And just like that, my heart and my mind were in unison.
Equipped with a two-volume dictionary at home, I intently read each sentence. The author used words I’ve never encountered before. It was a struggle. It was new to me. It was gripping.
Transfixed, I still remember how I intensely tried to hide my emotions. I wanted to cry. Again and again, I reminded myself that it’s fiction, that there’s no way it’s happening; there’s no chance.
But years later, can’t we see the almost similar plot and subplots reverberating in our time?
A pattern on the killings involving teenage boys which was allegedly done to sabotage the current administration’s war on drugs surfaced on the news. Some government officials, who because of the pressure to deliver and exhibit results to their bosses and to the public, purportedly plant evidence and falsely declare innocent, powerless individuals as the murderer, the perpetrator, the killer by conducting brutal tortures and wreak death threats. Some priests and authorities of the Catholic Church, who tell themselves that they carry the truth and that they serve as the guardians of the moral fiber of the society up to this day, ostensibly conceal their unrighteous acts, abuse minors and the weak, and improperly use their influence and power for their advantage.
With all these lurking on our plate, when are we going to wake up?
Frustrated that not so many people showed up in the opening day of the movie adaptation of Smaller, I searched for the Instagram account of award-winning director Brillante Mendoza for consolation. On that same day, he posted: “Film is an art and you cannot expect everyone to appreciate art. You just have to accept that this is the audience that you have. We cannot do anything about it.”
Literature and the arts bring us to places we’ve never been before. They show us perspectives that can shed light to some of the subtle, the hidden, and the unspoken ideas around us; that we may pause to look closer and circle back to the abhorrent fragments of our past to keep them from happening again.
We still have a long way to go but I hope that we’ll someday give time and investment to our quality locally produced films no matter how long or short or wherever the line is.
(This piece has been published in Rappler.com. Opinion, IMHO on the 11th of December 2017.)
‘Another point to consider is the psychological impact of witnessing a suicide attempt or a gory accident. What if there are children on the scene? What if they become traumatized? There is also the concern that such suicide attempts or accidents would happen too often that they become considered as part of the normal… We’ve gone through a lot to be deprived of quality services from the government. We have all felt defeated at one point.’
IT WAS a blistering hot afternoon when my northbound Metro Rail Transit (MRT3) train stopped at the Santolan station longer than usual. It’s around 2:40 pm. I was on my way to work. The crowd was not that thick.
After 6 minutes, an announcement was made. I did not understand the message because of the static noise coming out of the speaker. Anxious, I closed the book I was reading. It was a holiday because of the ASEAN Summit 2017.
The train doors remained open. I looked outside to know what’s going on. Not again, I said. A few seconds later, the train’s door closed but I still wondered what had happened.
Accident
Later that day, I heard two of my colleagues talk about news on MRT3. After hearing the details, to my horror, I realized that the delay of the train operations earlier that day was not because of another glitch or a technical problem, but because of a serious accident at the MRT3 Ayala station.
Around 2:30 pm. Woman. 24. Fainted. Fell on the railway tracks. Severed right arm. Cut near her armpit.
I was shocked. I couldn’t utter a word.
At that moment, I remembered another appalling MRT3 incident that occurred in March this year. I was also on my way to work and about to get into the entrance to buy a ticket when I observed that the train was not moving. It was stuck. The entrance had been blocked. Lines of passengers were nowhere to be found. Confusion and chaos were evident.
Out of curiosity, I asked one of the passengers who was forced to get off the train earlier that afternoon, “Sir, what happened?” He responded, “A man jumped onto the rails.”
Why do such incidents keep on happening?
In a 2013 ABS-CBN report, Pinky Webb wrote: “MRT general manager Al Vitangcol said they initially planned to put up screen doors only in 3 MRT stations, namely Taft Avenue, Shaw Boulevard, and North Avenue, by the end of the year…However, because of the recent incident, they will eventually construct the platform screen doors in all 13 stations of the MRT.”
Four years later, not a single station has been installed with a protective barrier.
How many lives have to be lost for the MRT management and the government to seriously act on this? How many more limbs or arms should be injured for those in power to act on commuters’ safety?
Another point to consider is the psychological impact of witnessing a suicide attempt or a gory accident. What if there are children on the scene? What if they become traumatized? There is also the concern that such suicide attempts or accidents would happen too often that they become considered as part of the normal.
We’ve gone through a lot to be deprived of quality services from the government. We have all felt defeated at one point.
The buried giant
I understand that there’s no shortcut in getting funds for platform screen doors or other security and safety upgrades for our trains. But, isn’t it just a matter of prioritization, political will, and accountability?
It has been said that the transport system of a country is a reliable barometer of its advancement, growth, and prosperity. We should aim to be a model of efficient and safe transport systems and services like our other neighbors in Southeast Asia.
But while waiting for that time to come, I hope that we don’t forget our frustrations and challenge those in power to make a difference for the future of our country and for the prevention of suicide attempts and accidents involving our trains.
As what Kazuo Ishiguro write in The Buried Giant, which I was holding inside the train at the Santolan station: “For in this community the past was rarely discussed. I do not mean that it was taboo. I mean that it had somehow faded into a mist as dense as that which hung over the marshes. It simply did not occur to these villagers to think about the past – even the recent one.”
Let’s all recognize and courageously face our society’s buried giants one mist at a time.
(This piece has been published on Rappler.com, IMHO, Opinion, on the 16th of November, 2017.)
“It was always an emotional ride from the entrance of the cemetery to his grave close to the center. Spirited away, I succumbed to flashes of memory: his laughter while watching a Dolphy show, his chicken tinola, his low, manly voice, our weekend afternoon sessions of counting the number of white, curly hairs I could pluck from his head, which was directly proportional to the number of pesos I would earn to buy my favorite orange drink and biscuits.”
WEEKS AFTER my father passed away when I was in grade school, I raised a question to our catechist, Ms. Y: “Where does a spirit go after a person dies?” My classmates and I were then sitting on the steps in front of a Catholic church in the financial capital. Ms. Y responded: “Ben, he’s in heaven with God. He’s watching over you. Pray to him every time.” Still baffled, I followed up with more questions: “But will he be bothered if he sees me getting low scores or failing grades, or unable to submit projects on time because of his absence? Does that mean that the dead still think about us, the living? Do they still have problems in heaven, a supposed worry-free paradise?”
At a loss for answers, she moved on with her discussion. But I did not.
In this Catholic nation, it’s instilled in the majority that we should observe Undas, a holiday where families visit cemeteries to lay flowers and light candles on the graves of their loved ones, to honor them.
I still vividly remember how every year after my father’s death, I took on the task of repainting his grave a week before the holiday at the Manila South Cemetery. With a small towel covering my nose to avoid inhaling the vapors from the white paint, I gleefully sang to my father some Fernando Poe Jr. songs, to bond with him, to reminisce on the old days, to feel his presence. FPJ, known as “the King of Philippine Cinema,” was his favorite actor.
After painstakingly removing the wild grass that had grown around his grave, I talked to him, whispered my dreams that I hoped he’d help me realize, and asked him to guard and guide us, especially my mom who had to take on the gargantuan role of being father and mother of the family after he left.
It was always an emotional ride from the entrance of the cemetery to his grave close to the center. Spirited away, I succumbed to flashes of memory: his laughter while watching a Dolphy show, his chicken tinola, his low, manly voice, our weekend afternoon sessions of counting the number of white, curly hairs I could pluck from his head, which was directly proportional to the number of pesos I would earn to buy my favorite orange drink and biscuits.
Years later, I questioned everything.
As a once devoted and proud Catholic, I became more inquisitive about things of the spirit, religion, faith, and the Bible when I entered college. After rereading Jose Rizal’s novels, “El Filibusterismo” and “Noli Me Tangere,” confusion plagued my mind. Rizal is our national hero but I wondered why most of us don’t heed his words. We even have “Rizal” as a required subject in tertiary education, to delve deeper and study his life and works, to learn from him, to inculcate in us the virtues of an exemplar of Filipino brilliance and excellence. But do we understand him? Have we realized the principal reason he was banished, with all his might and courage, from the face of the earth, which we commemorate every Dec. 30? Are we blind to historical facts?
On page 72 of the “Noli,” Rizal wrote: “But now, let’s see how the idea of Purgatory, which is absent from both the Old and the New Testaments, became Catholic doctrine. Neither Moses nor Jesus Christ make the slightest mention of Purgatory…” Yes, purgatory is never mentioned in the Bible. A quick search in your electronic Bible can prove this to you. The question then is: Where did the doctrine of purgatory come from?
What about the scrapping of the doctrine of limbo by then Pope Benedict XVI when he authorized the Catholic Church’s International Theological Commission on April 22, 2007, to publish a 41-page document titled “The Hope of Salvation for Infants Who Die without Being Baptized”? In an article written in Rome for Telegraph.co.uk, Nick Pisa reported: “Babies who die before being baptized will no longer be trapped in Limbo following a decision by the Pope to abolish the concept from Roman Catholic teaching.”
Why do we have to light some candles, thick and thin, big and small, during Undas? Why do some Catholics steal and disrespectfully recycle the very candles of their fellow Catholics that are believed to illuminate the path for their deceased? Why are we made to believe that our departed loved ones are guarding and guiding us from heaven? Isn’t it true that the dead know nothing, as what’s written in Ecclesiastes 9:5 (New International Version), “For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing; they have no further reward, and even their name is forgotten”?
For hundreds of years people have been made to believe in doctrines that have no basis in the Bible. Worse, these are just invented teachings that go against the principles of truth and justice. But to no surprise, when I brought this up to the other members of my Catholic family, they were caught uninformed. Because of fear for our souls to be condemned, we grew up following our leaders without testing or asking them, and, like a sail in a vast ocean with no map, GPS tracker, or a virtuoso captain to follow, we’re clueless on why we practice or celebrate centuries-old traditions.
While it is true that we’re a democracy and that our Constitution protects our freedom to choose and practice a religion, it is time to rethink our stand and course. We’re living in a world where access to information is encouraged—something nonexistent when the greatest Filipino who ever lived challenged those in authority in his time using his proverbial pen as his sword. Yes, there’s fake news. Yes, deception is rampant. Yes, it’s an uphill battle to get to the bottom of things. But today, more than ever, we have a duty to get to the truth, for veracity to shine, not just for other people but for our own sake—for our souls.
The choice is in our hands.
And with God’s grace and mercy, someday I hope to talk to my father again. No, not in this world, not next to his grave, or while sitting in front of another Ms. Y, but with the almighty Father in heaven, in his paradise.
(This piece has been published in Philippine Daily Inquirer’s Op-Ed section – Young Blood – on the 31st of October, 2017.)
Somewhere along the way you’ll get hurt.
Broken promises.
Failed relationships.
Frustrations from all angles.
To face these is inevitable.
But take heart.
What’s life if we get everything we want
and prayed for at the moment we
expected them to greet us?
Where’s excitement in not challenging
our limitations and weaknesses?
We’ve all questioned everything at one
point in our lives – our decisions,
our gifts, our value as a person.
But look at the one gazing at you from
the future – the stronger you.
You’ve gone through this before;
you can do it again.
Meaning breathes from tales of triumphs
and overcoming of odds.
Be a comeback story.
I rejoice whenever it rains. But everything changed when one night, on my way home from work, I saw how children and women and men sleep next to each other. Their beds? None. They slept on soft drink boxes with no roof to cover them on the sidewalk while public and private vehicles passed by. Headlights exposed their fine details. Stray dogs and cats searched for food on the pile of garbage just few feet away while they’re dreaming. I then asked myself: Where are they going to stay if it started to rain? The Catholic church near their neighborhood’s closed. It haunted me inside out.
It’s perfectly legal to get angry, to raise your clenched fist, to shout and to have your thoughts made known to those holding the highest positions in the government. With everything that’s going on, it is a natural reaction, a civilized attempt to express. But it’s scarier I believe if the voices of those who care have been shut, the doors and windows to understanding closed, and hope gone. I wonder if the Philippines will one day wake up on an atmosphere of pure hate, hurt, and heresy. Yes, I still wonder because at 4 A.M. my mind wanted to believe that we can get over these humps. I hope that fear will never triumph against the truth… I hope.
Pilit niyakap ang katahimikan
sa pagitan, sa kawalan ng
salita na nag-uugnay sa
mga kaluluwa
Naglaho ang dating pagsinta,
ang galak sa puso sa tuwing
naririnig ang tinig, ang
tuwa na hindi maisaysay
ng bibig
Dumarating ang araw na
gaya ng magnanakaw –
pino ang kilos, tumakas ang
kaluskos, ‘di mabanaag na
pagbabadya
Dito natatapos ang lahat –
sa paggapos sa idinidikta
ng puso, sa pagkitil sa pagasa
ng pagsasama, sa pagtitig sa mata
nang ilang sandali pa at ang pagtalikod
sa mga pangarap na hinabi ng panahon
Nagtatalo ang isip kung saan nagkamali,
kung anong dapat baguhin, ang dapat ibawas
at idagdag sa sarili, bagama’t nalalaman na
wala nang iba sapagka’t iniisip na ang pagdating
ay dulot ng taimtim na paghihintay,
sa pagiwas, sa kusang pagtalima
Nguni’t ipakikilala ng araw ang
nakatakda, ang nararapat maganap, ang
hindi maabot ng tanaw, ang nasa
malayo – ang hiling
sa dalangin.
SOMEDAY, YOU’LL forget about him. You’ll forget about how he made you laugh, yes, even how he made you feel special and appreciated; how he encouraged you to reach your dreams; how he dared you to challenge your own standards and principles; how days seemed to pass by faster than how they should be; how each morning greeted you with hope that you’ll wake up next to him. Someday, all that will be left of him in your memory is the hurt he caused, the sadness he inflicted on you for days or weeks or months, and that moment when you looked at the mirror and saw yourself small. You doubted yourself because of him. But choose to forgive for the future – your future.
Time will pass by and you may forget some details. But he never will – both the smile and the sorrow.
AS SOMEONE who doesn’t find joy in consuming alcoholic drinks, being an attendee at a party where carbonated fruit drinks have been made available is a gift, a sweet gesture to avoid being out of place. Let’s toast!
IF YOU know deep within you that you love someone, don’t settle for anybody else. Don’t call or text or entertain those who express their intent to know you, to be with you. Don’t waste time and energy by giving others hope for your affection. Be courageous enough to tell them how you feel. Choose the one that you love despite all the mysteries, the uncertainties. Be loyal, sincere, and faithful even if all that’s in between you is silence. Relationships, the genuine ones, do not exist because of intensity. They don’t happen overnight or by pouring all the emotions in one sitting. They come into being through consistency. To be willing to listen, to give in, and to put the other person first; to be committed all the time. And nothing is more satisfying than being stared at by someone you waited for because you did not settle with all the tempting, enticing, and riveting roadblocks along the way.
He’s fire.
She’s water.
When she tries to be with him, pieces of her turn into vapors. The wind takes them away; they are nowhere to be found. But she craves to be consumed. To sense his warmth. To forget for a moment the cold feeling inside. To decide on her own. Because only then, she’s reminded on how to be alive. She’s still searching for the missing pieces. Yes, up to this day to feel his touch all over again. And he’s waiting for her.
if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.
don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
YOU DESERVE someone selfless. Every day. Every hour. No, not just on your first two years together when everything’s perfect, smooth, and light. When you seem to own the world as your eyes meet. When the outside noise is irrelevant; their opinions, their voices in the background. You deserve someone who doesn’t put you down but strives for you to reach your full potential. You deserve someone who stands up for you, who fights for you and who will never give up on you no matter how difficult you can be sometimes. You deserve someone who chooses you every time. Keep that someone and be selfless as well.
Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.
“Thank you for your efforts on building a better planet despite all the criticisms, despite all odds. Thank you for weathering the storms. Thank you for being brave.”
I ADMIRE the man for his conviction, for standing up for his principles, for not listening to his idols and mentors on what he has to do, for having deaf ears on their never-ending opinions for him to stop innovating, to back out and forget the idea of challenging this world’s perspectives.
He makes it seem like his bourgeois status is irrelevant whenever he speaks, when he tries to explain things. His eyes glitter like the stars in space.
But aren’t we tired of the congestion, of inhaling toxic gases everyday from petroleum-fueled cars?
We are all witnesses on the rising effects of pollution to humanity caused by petroleum-fueled cars. There’s tons of health problems and issues that the governments of the world have to deal with for its citizens. Global warming is happening not because of the of nature’s processes, or the imbalance in the ecosystem. It exists because of our own actions.
And so, he built Tesla, Inc..
It takes guts to build a company out of nowhere and get over the hump of the financial crisis in 2008.
Wikipedia described Tesla Inc. as an “American automaker, energy storage company, and solar panel manufacturer based in Palo Alto, California. Founded in 2003, the company specializes in electric cars, lithium-ion battery energy storage, and, through their SolarCity subsidiary, residential solar panels.”
When I first heard that company name years ago when I was still studying electrical engineering in the university, I remembered right away the inventor and engineer Nikola Tesla, who I look up to because of his genius and passion for science. As someone who wanted to work in one of the hardest and most challenging fields ever, he inspired me. There I was, imagining who I could become someday. I also once told myself that it’s so fitting that Elon named his company after Nikola Tesla because of his contributions. It’s a form of respect.
All creatives works, all novel ideas come from those pioneers and thinkers who are courageous enough to question everything, to take the status quo head-on. They are those who do not dwell too much on the “now” but on what the future holds. We are where we are today because of the continued search of humanity for advancement and progress. But sometimes, we hinder each other, demotivate those who oppose us, those who are different from us, and tell ourselves that we are right without conducting objective examinations. Sometimes, we unknowingly victimize the creative genius in all of us.
While it is true that owning an electric-powered Tesla car will cost you a fortune, still we should appreciate the attempt to turn this world upside down.
I hope to meet Elon Musk someday. I hope to have coffee with him. I hope to finish reading all of the books that influenced him. And I hope to personally tell him: “Thank you for your efforts on building a better planet despite all the criticisms, despite all odds. Thank you for weathering the storms. Thank you for being brave.”
“With your presence, your warmth, I believe I can do great things; that I can reach my dreams with your help. I can’t imagine my existence without You.”
I CAN’T imagine life without You. I can’t imagine doing things just because I want to, or just because of my desires. I can’t imagine waking up each day without giving You thanks or remembering your goodness. With your presence, your warmth, I believe I can do great things; that I can reach my dreams with your help. I can’t imagine my existence without You.
Please talk to me every time, every second of my life. Please be patient with my shortcomings and mistakes. Please listen to my prayers, spoken or not. Please guide me always.
I hope to see You someday, to offer You everything that I have, my whole being. I hope to sing You songs and offer You thanksgiving in your paradise, in eternity.
I hope because you are God and I am not going to ask for anything else.
Let me sleep tonight. I’ll listen to you as soon as I wake up. You can bug me the whole day all over again if you want to. Or if you get tired, find someone else. You’re free to do so.
“When you close and seclude your country from international trade, can you expect economic growth? Can you expect your people to think critically in a global scale for them not to depend on what you feed them every day of their lives?”
IF YOU want to start a war and destroy a territory of your adversary, you don’t divulge your plans. You just do it. No threats. No clamor for the world’s attention. No senseless imaginary epistles to the media.
The North Korea’s leadership in its desire to infiltrate the world over the past few years have been doing unspeakable things. Labeled as a rebel to a world where the international police is the United States, they continuously terrorize the psych of those who wanted to keep the current order.
Can you imagine being one of the more than 160,000 people living and working in Guam with a looming threat for you to be vanished on the surface of the Earth? Can you imagine attempting to sleep at night before the deadline thinking that you might no longer see tomorrow with all its beauty and grace? I can’t.
I still wonder what’s really going on in North Korea. There were reports of starvation, deprivation, and abuse towards its citizens. When you close and seclude your country from international trade, can you expect economic growth? Can you expect your people to think critically in a global scale for them not to depend on what you feed them every day of their lives? I pity those people: brainwashed, ignorant of the outside world, walled literally by the selfishness of those who call themselves leaders of the new world.
The coming days will be interesting. The hype is here.
North Korea succeeded in getting the attention of all of us. The next question is, what now? According to the latest report, they delayed the launch of the missiles to pulverize Guam as an ally, a forward fortress of the United States in Asia-Pacific. But for how long? Is it just a stunt, a publicity, a tiring move of North Korea for it to test its presence in the political arena?
I hope that no war will emerge in the coming decades between countries. We’ve all seen and read how destructive and pointless wars are to those involved: lost lives, gone dreams, and endless call and cry for help.
We are all different. We are diverse. We all want to move forward, to be in a better position, to be great. But again and again, we have two options on how we can achieve these: to promote life and peace or to be catalysts for destruction.
They say that history dictates who the heroes and villains are; books marvel the real ones and forget the pretenders.
But today, all we can do is to keep believing. To believe that the threat to our lives will no longer be there; that they managed to escape from us.
“In a one-click-please-answer-me-now world where Google is at the top of the food chain in technology, it is expected that one can easily answer the questions cited. But no, it’s not the case.”
NOBODY LIKES to be rejected. It is an innate need for us to be accepted, appreciated, and valued by other people. It’s one of the reasons why there’s awarding ceremonies, recognition days, and ‘best’ and ‘most outstanding’ titles that the world societies give to deserving individuals.
But we’ve all gone through it or faced it. A simple job interview maybe weeks or months after school or college graduation. By then, with all the might that we have, we faced men and women in suits, ties, and leather shoes. It’s no longer a joke. Everything’s real and we’ve got to cope or else we’ll be left behind in life.
Come to think of it. For more than a decade, we’ve unconsciously prepared for this momentous event. Yes, we want to be successful, to earn money, to buy everything that we want. We want to enjoy, be in a more comfortable position, and sip hot green tea in an island in the Pacific. We crave for meaning among the millions of things around us. But nobody told us the Dos and Don’ts in an interview.
What are your weaknesses? How about your strengths? Where do you see yourself 5 years from now? What is your greatest achievement? Why do you want to work here? Why should we hire you?
In a one-click-please-answer-me-now world where Google is at the top of the food chain in technology, it is expected that one can easily answer the questions cited. But no, it’s not the case. Because some of us memorize what we’ve got to say for the Big Day, we forget the essentials why managers and executives sit down to talk to us (some do it over Skype or through a telephone call). One can easily sense if the provided was based on a script in a computer or smartphone somewhere. The interviewers are not dumb to fail in measuring you up. Interviews happen to gauge you, your values, your virtues, your principles, your outlook, and you, the whole package. Accepting you means saying yes to a future that they cannot foresee with your talents and capabilities. It’s a form of investment.
Failing an interview happens. It happens to those who are not qualified or to those who did not prepare: being oblivious, not following the dress code, being impolite, unorganized resume, missing documents, wandering mind. To be accepted and appreciated and valued is something that we all long for. But first, we should ask: Do I really want this? Did I make the necessary preparations? Can I imagine myself working in this corporation, company, or entity?
It is not easy to pass an interview. But if you’re chosen and if you’re deserving of a nod, of a yes, of the opportunity, expect that you’ll exit the door with a smile on your face or you’ll wave goodbye at the person on the other side of the screen with gratitude in your heart.
“I find it fascinating how the train’s doors can be one’s windows on this journey.”
EVERYDAY, I ride the Metro Rail Transit (MRT) to go to work. Most of the time it’s crowded. But sometimes, seats are empty, the existence of air conditioning units can be felt because of the cold breeze coming out of them, and the passengers vibrantly chatting to each other; men and women and children, all collected in a closed, moving machine.
But in a rare occasion, while cruising through the highway, I observed how weather changed. At the Guadalupe station, it’s raining so hard that you can imagine yourself enveloped in your white, comfy bed sheet in your room. The vehicles on the street are stuck and wet. Small and large, private and public, they have the same fate. But four stations later and after few kilometers, the concrete road below seems untouched by a raindrop. It’s like you’re looking at a different world. And with wonder, you realize that you became a link to two dimensions.
I find it fascinating how the train’s doors can be one’s windows on this journey. They say that the MRT reveals who we really are. But I think it also reveals the variations in different places, the weather, the people, the clouds above. It reveals the complexities of the things around us, that what’s happening to one place can’t be expected to unfold to another. Nothing is really the same or equal. We can choose to think of all the complaints that we wanted to address to its management whenever we’re informed that a defective train causes the delay or we can choose to just enjoy the ride.
And at the end of the day, it all boils down to our perception, to our eyes, to us.
“We are spirited away from the meaning of everything because of all the noise, news, frenzy, trends, and flash reports.”
WHEN DID you last look up at the sky to appreciate the heat and light coming out from the sun? When did you last pause to see the finer details of life?
We’re all busy doing a lot of stuffs. There’s a mountain of responsibilities and deadlines that have to be met and sometimes, these things exhaust us. I know the feeling. I understand. But because of all these things, we sometimes forget to give ourselves a break; to reflect and once and for all determine to ourselves the essentials of everyday existence, the reason behind everything, our ends.
While we understand that everything that we see is fleeting, we’re consumed by our own doing. We are spirited away from the meaning of everything because of all the noise, news, frenzy, trends, and flash reports.
Today is a start to do otherwise.
Give thanks and smile at the Starbucks crew who prepared your drink and wrote your name on its container. Help that old woman at the stairs on her way to the train station’s ticket booth. Press that up or down button when you see a hopeful passenger rushing to get inside the elevator when you got off. Yes, even if she’s few meters away; sacrifice a lit bit.
If you have spare time, remind yourself of the joy you had when one afternoon you just stared at how nature moves: the ants as they transport their food or tirelessly search for one, the waves of the ocean that bring peace inside, the wind that caresses you every time, and the sun as she continuously glows with your appreciation or not.
“I believe that everyone’s a storyteller but the challenge is to have a grasp on what’s worth writing about.”
WHEN I first held a copy of Philippine Daily Inquirer years ago (the largest and greatest of Philippine broadsheets) and realized that they accept column article submissions, I told myself that someday, I should get published there. I fell in love with its opinion column ‘Young Blood’ where the twenty-something and below gets featured. It was then that I dreamt of being a writer.
I’m still a work in progress, every aspiring writer will tell you that. But after getting published, it kindled hope in me to be a regular contributor. It became a catalyst for me to be a better observer, a finer listener, and to pause more. A lot of things are going on and it is our job to translate them into words. Sometimes I sulk after learning that an unexpected thing happened which is natural.
I can say that being idealistic is an important element to be able to write. You have to hope that there’s a better world ahead and you have to be part of the public discourse, a contributor, to get it. You may fail miserably, you can get rejected multiple times but these are all part of the process. I can’t think of a successful writer today who never experienced rejection.
To understand that there’s a gatekeeper who filters all of the submissions makes it beautiful. To understand that millions of people wanted to write but die dreaming about it places writing at a whole new level. I believe that everyone’s a storyteller but the challenge is to have a grasp on what’s worth writing about. We have our own gift, our own passion when it comes to creativity. We all have our own point of view which surely differs from others; different opinions on an issue or an idea. different mindsets.
But isn’t it true that every published work humbles you? It is not easy to generate ideas. You have to keep moving, keep believing, keep working. Yes, it’s work because you spend time, energy, and intellect to accomplish it. But since you enjoy doing it, time flies by without you knowing it.
I still have a lot of dreams but I hope that this will remind me every now and then that they are attainable. And I hope that it will do the same to you.
I LOVE it whenever it rains. I like the cold weather, the bed weather, the suspension of classes (when I was still at school) because of the heavy rain. I like listening to the sound of every drop, the tiny and huge ones; the roof asking for mercy on its never-ending greetings.
They call us Pluviophiles, those who find joy and peace of mind during rainy days. For a number of times, I bicycled while it was raining, played basketball with my friends during a downpour, finished reading a book in one sitting while there’s a typhoon, and challenged myself to a 10K road run while everyone’s inside their houses watching programs on tv or savoring their hot, flavorful soup.
Rain cleanses our roads and reveals our inability to follow simple rules like throwing our garbage at the right place. Whenever it rains continuously, some areas become flooded. You can see plastic bottles and plastic bags floating; street kids diving into the murky water as if it’s a swimming pool.
Rain transforms us. More likely, traffic’s everywhere. People are on the rush to escape, to get off the road, to reach their destinations. But if you’re stuck, moods change, conversations become lighter, and we get to see and observe the little things around us.
“We realized what we’ve been missing, what we’ve been waiting for, what it takes for us to willingly go to a theater and spend a little amount to treat film as an art form, an experience, and arm ourselves with so much respect to our culture and our gifts as a people.”
Dear you,
At a time when we grew tired of being bombarded with films with worn out formulas and endless sequels, you came as a delightful surprise. We felt helpless when the news broke that the Metro Manila Film Festival (MMFF) changed its format all over again and chose to revert to its old self which saw the return of familiar staples in the annual showcase. But being pulled out of last year’s roll of MMFF movies with all the controversy that surrounded it is the best thing that happened to you.
You are an unexpected visitor in our consciousness and so, I would like you to have this that we may not forget each other as time passes by. Let me reminisce the memories we had the same way Tonyo and Lea (played by comedian Empoy Marquez and award-winning actress Alessanda de Rossi respectively) did. It’s about an hour and a half of a roller coaster ride that you and I experienced together. Let me start counting:
One. One bicycle ride of Lea in the introduction and it hit me. I remembered a scene in the 2000 South Korean romantic television drama Autumn in My Heart where the main characters were biking on their way home from school. The background music was captivating. Lea’s vibrant face greeted us with a smile. Her eyes were magical.
Two. Two questions popped inside my head: Firstly, did Alessandra and Empoy really act?And secondly, is it true that they’re not friends before? It’s as if cameras were positioned in front of them and everything just unfolded, like in a reality show. It’s as if they’ve known each other so well that we felt the comfort in every pat on the shoulder, hands, and sometimes on the face. We saw ourselves in them, on how we deal with our friends and loved ones.
Three. Three elements made you outstanding: unconventional love team, cinematography, sincerity. Infested with ‘pabebe’ love teams around, the pairing of Empoy and Alessandra is something that we’ve never seen before. The visual texture of the film, the pacing, the overall mood are remarkable. As a country that has gone crazy with South Korean dramas, you captured us with pleasing imagery all shot in a foreign land: a garden with various types of flowers, plain green fields, rain. But more than these, you’ve shown us sincerity. Yes, sincerity that we’ve not felt in Filipino movies in a long time. I sensed it in every line, in every laughter whenever a joke is delivered.
Four. Four producers gambled on you. Piolo Pascual, film director Joyce Bernal, Erickson Raymundo and Suzanne Shayne Sarte made it possible for you to exist. It’s a difficult time for producing films. How many film studios have gone bankrupt in the Philippines? How many creatives and writers tried but failed? But they saw something in you. They saw your potential and cleaved to that. They’ve displayed courage all throughout the process which is a great example to us.
Five. Five times I tried to stop myself from crying. Five times I saw those sitting at my left shed tears because of you.
Six, seven.Six or seven times I reminded my mother who’s in her sixties to refrain from giving her comments to some scenes for it might distract the other audience members. In the past, we would humorously tell her to not sleep inside the theater or she’ll miss the flow of events. But for the first time since she got her senior citizen I.D. card which gives her the privilege to watch movies in all theaters in our city for free, she did not fall asleep watching you. You got that hook.
Eight. Yes, for eight instances I watched your trailers. It is also the number of times I hoped that you’ll be a blockbuster. I felt how your writer and director, Sigrid Andrea Bernardo, attempted to offer us a novel recipe that we can enjoy and be proud of. And she succeeded. No pretensions. No awful chemistry. No forced twists in the story.
Nine. You left me with nine trademarks that will forever stay with me: cabbage, teddy bear, banana, heart, bell, bowls of ramen, Sapporo beer cans, paper cranes, and baby dragonfly. You gave each of them a different meaning that has never entered our imagination before. You thought us how to look at the minute details, the small things, and know how to value them.
Ten. Ten million pesos was the amount of money that has been spent to bring you to life. But you know what? Because of that amount, we got to see ourselves better. We realized what we’ve been missing, what we’ve been waiting for, what it takes for us to willingly go to a theater and spend a little amount to treat film as an art form, an experience, and arm ourselves with so much respect to our culture and our gifts as a people.
They say that your success banked on word of mouth. But I believe, it is because of word of heart. Our hearts finally spoke after a long time of silence and we just listened to them. You are a relief, a refreshing reminder of who we are as Filipinos. You made us believe again on our creative capacity, on our genius when it comes to storytelling, and on our distinct voice deep within us; that we may see and love even with our eyes closed.
“A great mentor does not just point to you the negatives but also the positives. They should meet you at your best and remind you that there’s still tomorrow even at your worst.”
CAN YOU consider your boss a caring mentor? How about your teacher at school? Or does your trainer constantly motivate you to reach your full potential?
We all need honest and sincere people in our lives. They are those who are willing to take the risk to divulge to us the areas where we can improve on, the part of our work where we miserably break, the shortcomings that we overlook. We need another set of eyes from those who truly want us to progress and not be stuck. Not for anything else, not for their personal gains, not for their biases, but because they feel that it’s the right thing to do and because jealousy and selfishness are not in their vocabulary. We receive absolution from them whenever we feel like we committed mistakes that we’re guilty of or whenever we fail them.
While it is true that there are times when we suffer just seeing our mentors, those moments that they share with us their lives is more important. They are supposed to inspire us. We listen to their feedback and adhere to their advice after careful analysis in our head.
Various books have been published about leadership, mentorship, and success. Malcolm Gladwell in his book Outliers said that those who succeed in life do not just have talents. There are a lot of people who are talented but are not successful. He discussed the value of timing, influence, culture, and environment for one to stand out and reach their peak. And in the environment, our mentors are included.
Their presence in our lives is a game changer. Mentors pave the way for us to have a glimpse of another point of view. Another point of view means comparison. One gets to have the choice on what path to take, when to pull the trigger, and better understand the consequences of every decision.
A great mentor does not just point to you the negatives but also the positives. They should meet you at your best and remind you that there’s still tomorrow even at your worst. They’ve been there and done that. Their experiences are unquestionable only if you know each other very well. Trust is vital for any relationship to work.
If you have a mentor that you look up to, be grateful. Not everyone is given a chance to have one. They help us create things and with grit, make a difference.
“It was in his second month with us that the answer to why some owners sleep next to their dogs came to me.”
I USED to hate dogs. I used to cringe every time I see one wandering on the streets under the open sky, near our house, or even inside my room. They’ll bark at you unceasingly if you’re a stranger to them. Some will bite you without any notice or voluntarily and confidently share their saliva by licking your feet, your hands or sometimes your toes.
I can still remember how I told myself that I will never touch a dog again. In my childhood, one afternoon, our family dog bit me on my right cheek while I was eating a crispy fried chicken leg. My mom immediately approached me and tried to disinfect the wound with soap and running water. Her grip of the nozzle is still vivid in my memory. I couldn’t understand the gravity of what happened and the possible consequences of being bitten by our dog then. I didn’t know that it has to be taken seriously.
After going through careful examinations in the hospital, my mom told me to be brave because I had to be injected with Rabies vaccine just to make sure. I took more than five shots. All the doctors were fond of saying the same thing every time they held my arms: “Be a man… It’s just like a bite of an ant.”
But one day that fear vanished inside. Everything changed when my younger brother bought an apple head Chihuahua in a pet store in the neighboring city. My family named him Chua and he greets me whenever I get home. He runs so fast that those sleeping in our living room have no choice but to be awakened. No, it’s not because of his short, loud cry but because he runs over them. He’s a consistent and amenable welcome committee member.
Wagging tail. Tiny paws. Hanging tongue.
I would play with him as he nuzzles my leg and my anxieties would temporarily exit my mind. My initial distaste for him transformed into delight. It was in his second month with us that the answer to why some owners sleep next to their dogs came to me.
With the right fit and timing, fun will show itself naturally. Give it some time.
“Fail. Stand up. Discover the creator, the artist in you even if sometimes it’s scary.”
IF YOU see yourself as a creative, do not give up. If you believe that you are an artist, embrace and nurture your craft. If you think that every cell of your body directs you to do more, to work on your passion, to reach the farthest limits of your imagination, try. And if an idea pops up in your head out nowhere, while you’re brushing your teeth, while taking a bath, while pouring tomato sauce on your plate to make your special dish, while walking, jogging, or sprinting, while waiting for the one that you love in a cafe, Japanese restaurant, or on a bench somewhere, while reading a book, or while riding a bicycle, a car, or a seesaw in a park, listen.
The world is filled with people who call themselves artists and poets and writers but do not know when to listen and be brave enough to spend their time to give their art its own form, life, and space. They do not want to feed themselves with new perspectives. Everyone is born a creator but not all of us are courageous enough to face its inexplicable faces, its inescapable enigma.
Fail. Stand up. Discover the creator, the artist in you even if sometimes it’s scary. I know because it frightened me to write this.
“Yes, it’s a blasphemy to treat a book as more special than its neighbors by just the cover, or the author, or the summary at the back cover. But we’re all guilty of this crime, aren’t we?”
TRUTH BE told, being a book hoarder or a book lover is not easy. You plot your calendar with nearby book sales, you ask your friends if they want to donate their books to you or you carry a basket around a bookstore and try to limit yourself with the budget for that month. Most of the time you fail. You just don’t know why.
But there are just some books that even if you wanted to own them and embrace them and smell them the first time you saw them, you just couldn’t. You wait for the right timing, the perfect opportunity. Sometimes, they are the hardbound books with glossy pages, full of pictures and texts that can blow your mind away. You crave for them. They are the type that you prepare for, think about, and not just settle for if you don’t want to go home empty-handed after going for a hunt in the mall.
Yes, it’s a blasphemy to treat a book as more special than its neighbors by just the cover, or the author, or the summary at the back cover. But we’re all guilty of this crime, aren’t we? We have our favorites. We fell in love in the author’s way of thinking, their perspective, their choice of words; the structure, the voice, and the characters they created.
Tonight, I am going to open the pages of a coffee table book by Kuya Daniel Razon. The title of the book is Get It Straight with Daniel Razon. Tonight, I am going to revisit the interviews the award-winning journalist had, the issues that have been tackled, the truth at every turn of the page. Tonight is the night that I’ve been waiting for. I was not present during the book launch more than a month ago but to understand that there’s more to the book than meets the eye is a treat itself.
Stephen King, Malcolm Gladwell, Elizabeth Gilbert, and Adam Grant are some of the greatest authors today and I own a copy of almost all of their books. But that one purchase, that one black coffee table book by Kuya will always be in a league of its own.
So at this point, think about that one author that you admire most. Think about the things that you realized after reading one of his or her works. What did you feel when you first held it in your hands? What were your thoughts?
Of the mountains of books that a book hoarder or a book lover has in any part of the world, there will always be that book that will stand out the most. And that book, whether hardbound or not, whether made of glossy pages or not, is what they’ve long waited for.
“Siyam na beses din akong aasa na hudyat ito sa muling pagtitiwala nating mga Filipino na kaya nating makagawa ng quality films na tatangkilikin at pararangalan maging sa international stage.”
HAYAAN MONG gaya nina Tonyo at Lea, magbibilang ako:
Isa. Isa kang rebelasyon, Empoy. Pinahanga mo kami. Matagal ko nang naisip na higit ka pa sa pagiging komedyante, isa kang artista. Naramdaman ko ‘yon noon dahil ‘ika nga nila, kapag komedyante ka, marami kang hugot, maraming pinagdaanan. Salamat pinatawa mo ‘ko sa sinehan kasama ang pamilya ko ng ilang beses. Maraming pinaiyak ang sulat mo.
Dalawa. Dalawang tanong ang nabuo sa isip ko habang pinapanood kita, Alex: una, umarte ka ba?; pangalawa, bakit parang ang tagal n’yo nang magkasama ni Empoy? Parang ang nangyari eh tinapatan ka ng camera, kinilig at lumabas ang dimple nang natural, at ayun! pelikula. Salamat sa mga patak ng luha mo sa dulo ng obra. Hanggang ngayon, hindi makamove-on yung ate ko sa napanood niya.
Tatlo. Tatlong elemento ang kapansin-pansing angat ang pelikula: unexpected love team, cinematography, at pacing. Pang-international yung dating. Salamat direk Sigrid Andrea Bernardo. Isa kang alamat! Hinangaan ko ang bawat eksena at anggulo. Nakagawa ka ng isang produkto na may kombinasyon ng lahat ng mga nabanggit na kinunan sa ibang bayan.
Apat. Apat ang producers ng pelikula: Piolo Pascual, Direk Joyce Bernal, Erickson Raymundo at Suzanne Shayne Sarte. Maraming salamat sa pagtaya. Sa panahon na nilalangaw ang industriya ng pelikulang Filipino eh naglakas-loob kayong gumawa, magisip, at magpuyat. Salamat sa pagpapanumbalik ng tiwala sa talento natin bilang mga storytellers at creators. Salamat sa respetong ibinigay ninyo sa aming mga manonood. Nabusog kami sa halakhak, lungkot, musika, saging, puso, at tunog ng kampana.
Lima, Anim, Pito. Naglalaro dito ang dami ng beses na pinaalalahanan ko ang nanay ko sa pagbibigay niya ng komento sa mga eksena. Madilim ang sinehan, maraming tao, at oo libre ang senior citizen sa sine sa Makati area.
Walo. Walong minuto bago mag-umpisa, ang haba ng pila para makabili ng cheese popcorn. Sa pagmamasid sa paligid, ilang dipa lang ang layo ng ilang tv personalities na nagaabang: Julius Babao, Bubbles Paraiso, Raymond Gutierrez. Physically fit na nga si Raymond gaya ng nabalita.
Siyam. Siyam na beses kong pinanood ang trailer. Siyam na beses din akong umasa na sana maging blockbuster movie ito ngayong taon matapos ipull-out last minute sa MMFF 2016. Siyam na beses din akong maniniwala na hudyat ito sa muling pagtitiwala nating mga Filipino na kaya nating makagawa ng quality films na tatangkilikin at pararangalan maging sa international stage.
Sampu. Sampung milyong piso ang budget ng pelikula. Inasahan ng mga producers na kikita ito ng 50 hanggang 60 milyong piso. Sa huling ulat, umabot na ito sa 200 milyong piso. Samantalang hindi ang takilya ang sukatan ng value ng isang work of art, gaya ng pangunahing karakter nito sa una, may higit pa sa nakikita ng mga mata. May ipinaramdam ang ‘Kita Kita’ sa mga manonood na matagal nilang hindi naramdaman sa ipinalabas na mga pelikula sa Pilipinas.
“You have to be sensitive to their needs like a mother to her child; be aware when to emphasize your thoughts and ideas.”
HAVE YOU ever been asked to be the instant host of an event? Well, it’s thrilling. But if it’s in your blood, you should always be ready. It should not be a burden to you.
It brings a different feeling whenever you stand in front of a lot of people. Their eyes are glued to you. Their ears and minds waiting for your every move and instruction. It’s about being in control and a catalyst for laughter to surface in a room of desserts and awards.
Conjunctions are essential; witty lines are required. As the life of the show, you must have a mastery of what’s supposed to happen next. But as an impromptu host, the challenge is tenfold. You have to gather in less than 2 minutes all of the information that you can get. You have to familiarize yourself with the kind of audience you have: their likes and dislikes, their inhibitions, the limits in culture and religion. Or else, you’ll fail without you knowing it. You have to be sensitive to their needs like a mother to her child; be aware when to emphasize your thoughts and ideas. Timing is a valuable commodity; facial expression matters.
After all, hosting is acting. It’s a performance for the audience to have a good time, to enjoy and forget some sections of their lives. Yes, even if you’re notified shortly by your boss while sitting next to her in between your sessions with your mud pie topped with vanilla ice cream.
“Because each year is not promised. Open yourself up. Choose to be free.”
ALTHOUGH IT’S something that has been planned weeks ago (and even if it’s in my Outlook calendar), still, attending a birthday bash at work adds a sense of enjoyment inside.
There are games and songs and Q&As and strangers in a room full of balloons, cakes, and gifts wrapped in variety of colors. But do you know what’s more exciting than these things? It’s the chance to be reminded that one day in the past, you were born, may be, surrounded by relatives and nurses and doctors who were all smiles looking at you – the newest arrival, the cutest creature, the innocent one. It’s hard not to put value into it. It’s difficult to comprehend everything that had to happen for someone like you to exist: your parents met, they fell in love, decided to raise a family, hardships and challenges in between. They never cowered to face life head on to nurture you, to give you the best life they could give, that you may grow up to be a good person. Again, good. Good which sometimes we take for granted because of the menacing distractions around us.
And so, if you’re in your twenties, or thirties, or in your senior years, give yourself a break, play and jump and laugh just because you want to as you completely cross-out the 365 days that have passed. Because each year is not promised. Open yourself up. Choose to be free. Be birthday bashed!
“It’s wonderful to imagine that a person spent his or her precious time thinking about you, your wants and desires; for preparing everything that’s inside the box.”
IT’S HEARTWARMING whenever someone appreciates us. It’s when a friend or someone we know give thanks to a small, little deed that we did for them. It’s when they reciprocate our goodness because we never bilked them at any point. While it is true that we should do things for other people not expecting in return, it’s still overwhelming. It could be a favor, a long-forgotten help that we offered for them in college or at work, or because of a recent event which had you both rejoiced. Whatever it is, it surely puts a smile on our face.
But do you know what’s more exciting than that? It’s receiving a package. Cutter. Tape. Unboxing. Bubble wraps. And sometimes a letter.
We may be living in an age when things are done in an instant but nothing beats a box that came from a different place; a present that’s been well-thought-of. It’s wonderful to imagine that a person spent his or her precious time thinking about you, your wants and desires; for preparing everything that’s inside the box.
Words are special but actions matter more. Blessed!
“More importantly, when did you last imagine yourself in the place of others who are suffering or in a challenging situation?”
YOU’RE ON your way home. It’s cold. Rain started to thunder the streets. You were excited as someone who sees the sentimentality that every drop brings. It was fun at first but you realized that you have no umbrella or coat with you. You searched for a cover but you couldn’t find one. Open area. Noise. Smog. And then a stranger with an umbrella came along and asked you: “Do you want to join me? We’re headed to the same way, maybe?”
It’s beautiful, isn’t it? How many times have you asked someone who’s exposed to the pouring rain if they need help and whether they wanted you to share your umbrella with them? It doesn’t happen that often. We all have our reasons and I completely understand that. That little touch of kindness, which is a bold gesture of empathy and compassion, speaks a great deal about a person’s values. Yes, it’s unsafe sometimes but it’s still a good act that some of us forget. “I don’t know who they are, why should I even care?” is our favorite line.
But what if that time comes that it’s you who need help? What if you’re on your way to work to attend a very important meeting and it suddenly started to rain and you’re hindered because you forgot to check the weather forecast earlier that day in the area and you didn’t bring your umbrella? What if you cry helplessly inside for but nobody cares? More importantly, when did you last imagine yourself in the place of others who are suffering or in a challenging situation?
They say that real heroes lie within us. We just have to recognize them and believe that they exist. Sharing an umbrella is a heroic act. Do it. Don’t hesitate. Wait ’til it’s raining cats and dogs again.
“What if it’s a restart for both of you? What if it’s a spark for your lives to be reconnected?”
YES, IT’S awkward. The first few lines matter. But the ineluctable element is surprise. And we all love surprises.
It’s when you see a familiar face on a train, on a bus, in a mall, or at an airport. You ask yourself again and again if you’ve not mistaken. Aware that the only way to get to the bottom of things is to inquire, you look at him or her in the eyes. It’s a risky move. You can either feel like you just saw each other yesterday, like nothing has changed, or the years of the absence of communication took a toll in your bond and you became strangers.
It’s worth giving a try. Because the laughters and tears that have been shared in the past can never be replaced or altered. Experiences can never be erased. What if it’s a restart for both of you? What if it’s a spark for your lives to be reconnected? Approach him or her and discover for yourself if the line is still there. Let the motors of curiosity flow in your veins.
I still remember how I took a chance on an old friend standing just few feet away from me on a running train one day.
I approached her and asked: “Hi. How are you?”
With fascination, she responded: “Great! It’s nice to see you again…”
And the unuttered stories revealed themselves and engulfed us at that moment with hope, joy, and inspiration.
“But if you’re running late, it can be considered a blessing from above for your wish to be heard. There’s sweat and blame and reasoning going on.”
YOU FELL in love with the thrill of reaching out to something, of being a triumphant being, of defeating time itself. But inside your head, you only have one wish: let the elevator be available for you not to be late again.
An available, working, and sometimes empty elevator doesn’t happen that often especially during rush hour. The building is full of people who use it on their way to the nearby mall or restaurant or just because they want to breathe in fresh air outside the confines of their office. But if you’re running late, it can be considered a blessing from above for your wish to be heard. There’s sweat and blame and reasoning going on. Images pop in your head every time: your boss reminding you of the Code of Ethics of the company for tardiness; the guard who doesn’t miss the chance to inquire what went wrong; and your conscience itself silently telling you that you’re better than this.
Shift: 9 A.M. – 6 P.M.
Ground floor: 8:55 A.M.
4th floor: 8:57 A.M.
9th floor: 8:59 A.M.
Time in: 8:59 A.M.
“This will never happen again” you would say. “I promise.”
And it’s a good thing that you work on the 9th floor. Can you imagine the struggle of those assigned on the 32nd floor?
“But for some reason, unexpectedly, someone offered you a seat. You’re surprised, puzzled, and at the same time grateful.”
YOU’RE ON your way home. You’re on the brink of total exhaustion. You wanted to tightly embrace your pillow to forget all the body aches, the outside noise, the unavoidable rancid smell from other commuters, the challenges of the day. You missed your soft, smooth bed that assures you home. But you couldn’t. You stood on a train. When you got in, no seat was available. It’s jam-packed again. It’s hot. You wanted to rest right at that moment. But for some reason, unexpectedly, someone offered you a seat. You’re surprised, puzzled, and at the same time grateful.
There, on that scene, you’re reminded of the goodness of people. You felt more comfortable and relaxed. You listened to your favorite songs. And as you alighted from the train, you stared at the stranger who sacrificed for you and you wholeheartedly offered your gratitude. It was an unforgettable day. It was a gift.
“There’s a sense of relief whenever we puncture air out of each bubble with our thumbs.”
WHEN IT comes to some of the simplest yet satisfying experiences, squishing and bursting and popping of bubble wraps will always be at the top section of the list. For every delivery and purchase with a box, free bubble wraps will always be present. We silently look forward to that regularly spaced, pliable transparent plastic with protruding air-filled hemispheres as part of the package. There’s a sense of relief whenever we puncture air out of each bubble with our thumbs. It’s a superior alternate to stress balls and way safer than throwing plates, appliances, or cellphones on a concrete wall. It’s so compelling that we want to hear the enticing sound up to the last bubble. Bubbly wrap yourself up!
IT’S NO longer a question of who’s braver, of who made the first move, or of who wrote the first letter. It’s all about how your universes collided. It’s about that one moment you saw each other differently; when the sun started to shine brighter; when time seemed to pass by faster; when you pictured the future together with no ounce of doubt in between. It’s the certainty of us at each sunrise that makes other things secondary like transitory blank slides. It’s about choosing each other every morning as you take life’s unpredictable rides.
BE IT a washing machine, a rice cooker, a Starbucks gift certificate, a bunch of cash, or an SUV, nothing beats the feeling of being a winner. Yes, a winner in a raffle draw that you did not even think about when you attended a party, a TEDx talk, or dragged yourself in a meeting, a conference, or a company event. Everyone stared and cheered for you as if you’re a gladiator who just triumphed over a pack of beasts at the Colosseum. Your heart beat faster and faster. The room erupted with joy. You solemnly followed the rules and voilà! “And the winner is… (your name).” Congratulations!
“And leave all the heavy baggage from yesterday to move forward.”
WHAT’S MORE fascinating than that? Isn’t it awesome to realize that you have another chance to make things right, to reconnect and build ties, to laugh and smile and greet the security guard who’s been up all night to secure your workplace?
Declare that today, you’ll do better. Pronounce that you’ll own this day and treat it as if it’s your last. Forget about your shortcomings and failures in the past. Restart. Recharge. And leave all the heavy baggage from yesterday to move forward.
You woke up today and that means you have another opportunity to enjoy life and appreciate everything. Yes, even the little things.
I WANTED to write about President Duterte and his third rape slur but I couldn’t. I wanted to discuss my dismay on the reinstatement of a police official in the Espinosa slay but something’s hindering me. I wanted to tell you my support to the Office of the Ombudsman in its move to press charges against former President Benigno Aquino III for mishandling the Mamasapano operation during his term in which 44 Special Action Force (SAF) members have been killed by a mix of rebel groups in the south but I won’t do it. I wanted to write about poverty, education, and health problems of my country but a part of me doesn’t want to.
I guess it’s because it’s Sunday. We deserve a break, don’t we? We do not want to hear any negative, saddening news on this day. We worked all week to spend this day for ourselves, our families, and our friends. I fully understand where you’re coming from.
Because of these, I am not going to delve deeper on what’s going on. Just like you, I am going to treat this day as a gift that I won’t let anything taint it with reminders of corruption, murder, homicide, suicide and of children in a state of shock, covered with blood, and white ashes because of bomb explosions. Because this day is a fleeting perfection and one should shy away from all distractions.
And so, I hope to see you next Sunday when we’ll transform all over again, to try to forget everything, and to pretend.
“In that moment when you wanted to give up, when you feel like I don’t exist, I will show up not with a tie and suit and greasy hair; not as a fountain of answers to all your worries; not as a dashing prince charming riding a white horse under the summer sun.”
(La Nourrice, Georges Seurat, 1884-85)
Dear you,
I know you’ve been waiting for me to finally come along, for us to meet, to have that ‘slow mo’ moment, for one of your dreams to be granted, for you to believe in the power of a prayer again, but please understand why it’s taking a little longer.
I still got a lot of growing up left to do. I have to understand myself better: strengths and weaknesses, what trips me off, what excites me, my motivations and aspirations, my personal goals. No doubt, I’ll commit mistakes and will get hurt so that when we finally meet, I’m stronger and more prepared to face the tides of life with you.
Please keep believing. Believe on the goodness of people. Don’t put up those walls right away when you meet a stranger you do not like. They may not have the same perspectives as you do, but who knows, they may have good and pure hearts. Give them a chance, learn to listen to their stories if the situation asks for it. Be there when they need a shoulder to lean on. Of course, it is inevitable that there are those who look like a saint on the surface but a beast inside. Be sensitive enough to distinguish and identify them as early as you can. Test them. Protect yourself always.
Never cease praying. No, don’t just pray for me, a yet unknown soul in a planet of about 9 billion people. Pray for your family, your country, and those who are in the midst of conflicts on different parts of the world. I think about them the same way I think about you. Just the thought of you fuels me to face each day with cheer in my core. I wonder how you look like, the tone of your voice, your laughter, your eyes, how you wear your hair…
I don’t want us to just be passive citizens of the world but contributors and workers for other people to be awakened to the reality that we should care about each other; that they may transform their societies towards the echelon of authentic progress.
Travel. I want you to discover other cultures and understand that we’re but a speck of dust in the vast universe. Learn another language, try their delicacies, and savor the warmth of their welcome. Take photos with them with a smile on your face so that when our hearts finally meet, we’ll share our experiences and learn from each other.
In theaters, I will hold your hand. We’ll laugh and cry and be scared to death together. By then, we’ll buy large-size popcorn. We’ll visit every museum, art gallery, and exhibit that we like for us to reconnect with the beauty of history and appreciate the passion and dedication that dignified men and women who have existed even before you and I were born have poured to their works. We’ll have infinite exchanges of our favorite songs and music artists and we’ll sing together whenever possible. I vow to be a loyal audience member of your every concert performance; the intimate ones, just you and I while staring at the sunset.
Enjoy your coffee. I want you to have those serene episodes for you to get in touch with your own thoughts, with your deepest dimensions, while taking a sip from your cup. Someday, we’ll talk and share our ideas about everything.
I know that whenever it rains, you think about me. You imagine us leisurely walking together on the sidewalk with mutual respect and admiration. Someday, I’ll hold your black umbrella and I’ll share my coat with you. We’ll find home in each other’s arms.
In that moment when you wanted to give up, when you feel like I don’t exist, I will show up not with a tie and suit and greasy hair; not as a fountain of answers to all your worries; not as a dashing prince charming riding a white horse under the summer sun. I will show up at a time you least expected. You’ll know that I have arrived because I will never give up on you even if you’ve put up a wall before I knew your name and yes, even before I said ‘Hi’ to you. You’ll know that I am the one that you’ve been waiting for because I will never let you doubt my sincerity and love for you. And then, I will show this to you and you’ll understand why it took me a while.
You’ll never be alone again.
Sincerely yours, Your man
(This piece has been published in Thought Catalog on the 21st of July 2017.)
ilang tula na rin ang naialay at naisulat
habang sa isipan ngiti mo’y nagmumulat
kung anong sunod na sasabihin at
bibigyang-buhay
ilang beses nang pinilas ang mga pahina
ng kuwaderno na minsan mong hinalikan
nang mabasa ang pangalan na, oo, sa
nakalipas na panahon ay walang
sawang binigyang-kulay
ginamit ang mga titik upang malaman
ang umpisa at malirip ang mga kalaliman
ng pagsinta na nagliyab sa pagasa nang
isang beses ay pinigilang umalis sa harapan –
“Nandito ako…”
ang sabi mo noon, ngunit narito hanggang
ngayo’y naaalala ang mga pangako ng pagiisang
dibdib, ang paghamak sa mga yugto ng
nakaraan na itinuring na walang
puwang kahit anino
ng namamagitan sa atin, ngunit hindi…
isang araw sinabi mong babalikan mo siya
at aasa ng magisa sa pagtanggap niya,
sa yakap niya, sa muli niyang paghagkan,
sa tinig na noong una’y kinamuhian mo’t
pilit binura sa isipan, nang
tuluyang kumawala
at heto, muli, ako’y binabati ng mga patak ng
ulan, tinatanong kung nasaan ka, kung
anong nangyari sa ating dalawa
at kung paano wawakasan sa
huling titik ng ‘yong
pangalan
This world celebrates the “Sexiest Women” and wonders why rape cases are all over. This world feasts on the flesh of ladies in two piece and ranks them annually as if being at the top is the greatest achievement that one can ever receive. This world wanted them to show off their curves and forget about modesty. Glossy magazines with “almost naked women” as the cover is “art”, a form of expression according to their lexicon. And this world is still trying to figure out why some men lust over their lives – hands tied, blood everywhere, no clothes on.
Nabuwal na minsan sa paghabol sa’yo,
Nagtanong kung tunay bang ikaw at ako –
Sa dulo, mamahalin ba o lilimutin din?
Gaya ng iba na napagod pagsapit ng dilim?
Umaga’t gabi’y ginugunita ang mga alaala,
Saksi ang ulan, araw, buwan, at mga tala,
Upang manatili ang pagibig tuwituwi na,
Sa paglisan mo’y lihim na nangungulila.
Nahumaling bago pa man nalaman ang pangalan,
Bago nginitian nang magkasalubong sa daan,
Noong wala pang ibang kakilala o kaibigan,
Bago pinisan ang mga bituin sa kalangitan.
My heart bleeds for you tonight. All three of your children have been killed. Multiple stab wounds. A slashed throat. Your wife was allegedly raped. She attempted to run, to seek help but the perpetrators silenced her on her way out, in the doorway. Your blind mother-in-law faced the same fate.
My heart bleeds because of this unspeakable crime that has been committed by soulless breathing beasts to you and to your family. I can’t imagine how the next couple of weeks will be like for you. Your house in San Jose del Monte, Bulacan will no longer remind you of a happy home but of horror. But please remember that there are those who care. There are those who wanted to embrace you, to comfort you. There are those who see you as a man who never backed down from a trial in this gruesome form. And that there are those who will be vigilant for justice to be served.
Never again will I buy and drink a medium-size cappuccino from Seattle’s Best Coffee 6 hours before midnight and expect to have a complete 8-hour sleep in preparation to a meeting with the Assistant Operations Manager at work the following day.
In a world of fake rice, fake cabbage, fake relationships, fake free WIFI, fake unlimited mobile data, fake profile pictures, fake accounts, fake artists, fake recruiters, fake licenses, fake promos, fake public servants, fake journalists and fake news, we have to remember that there are still thriving rays of truth around us. We just have to know where to look.
There is hope in me that the people in Marawi City, as soon as the war ends, will receive the help they need to start over; that the aid from the government and international community to rebuild their lives will not be put to waste; and that the appeals for donation to those who have been displaced will be heard. There is hope in me because the President of this country came from the south and because he made a promise that their voices will be recognized. There is hope in me because in one way or another, we know how it feels like to be locked up in a challenging situation. It must be difficult to accept the reality that you have to all of a sudden evacuate from your comfort zone with no extra clothes, toothbrush, or other personal belongings to bring with due to threat to your life. I hope that the war would soon be over. I hope that they find their way home again, our fellow Filipinos – the civilians, the police officers, and the soldiers.
It’s Sunday and I have been reminded of two powerful acts to have a more meaningful life: forgive and forget. Everyone makes mistakes and for one to be forgiven, one has to forgive first. But true forgiveness happens when the mind and the heart no longer remember the sin that has been committed by another person. So, please forgive and forget. Yes, before you close your eyes today… Before the moon and the stars sing you a lullaby.
AS VARIOUS sectors around the world celebrate the ‘Pride Month’ that aims to recognize the impact that lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender individuals have had on history locally, nationally, and internationally, I can’t help but remember one fact that has been shared during the most recent HIV/AIDS seminar at work and on my readings on the data from DOH: “Sexual contact remains to be the main mode of transmission with 942, most of which are from the male-having-sex-with-male (MSM) population with 820.” Again, ‘male-having-sex-with-male (MSM)’. I believe that facts like this hinder the Filipino society from accepting the LGBT community as a whole including the quest of some of them for same sex marriage to be legalized in the Philippines.
Yes, they are some of the most creative people that you’ll ever meet. Vibrant. Colorful. Some of the tv personalities, writers and thinkers I look up to are advocates for this cause. But in a machismo world where Strongmen rule, it would still be a major challenge for the LGBT community to be seen differently, as an equal. No, not when ‘male-having-sex-with-male’ ranks first on the causes of transmission of HIV/AIDS.
As I see it, until the number becomes close to zero and when the majority of us finally see them beyond the statistics, will this country jump with joy to celebrate with pride with them.
Because sometimes you meet someone with no idea how and why it all happened and soon after you can no longer imagine your life without them. You see them in the future, a part of your every plan, and suddenly you care to discover the hidden things inside of them, their deepest secrets, their stories – unspoken, waiting to exist in another soul. You forget the old you because you’ve never felt more like yourself than right now, beside them – being seen, stared at… And with all the chaos inside your head, you are certain about one thing – love. This is love to me.
Appreciate those who look after you, those who make the sacrifices for you and those who think about your growth as a person. The greatest mentors are the most sincere ones. We can all feel it when someone truly cares. Be grateful to them because not everyone is given the chance to work with these kind of people. With all my heart, thank you!
“In this age, when Facebook is taking over the social media spectrum and as it promotes connection all over the nations of the world through Internet.org, our generation is slowly being disconnected in our own cause to the former path, the old conduct, the conventional ways of our forefathers on how we should handle ourselves on the matters of the heart.”
HAVE YOU ever seen a couple committing PDA (Public Display of Affection) and while you see them in your head as immature, nonconformist beings because they couldn’t contain their overflowing love and passion for each other, they also reminded you of how you perceive love?
In February, a jeepney driver played familiar love songs on my way to work. It’s been a while since I’ve listened to that type of music. I associated every song on his playlist with someone. In every line. In every pause. But something strange caught my attention. An eyesore. A man and a woman sitting in front of me, who were in their early twenties, were entangled in embrace, whispering words in a somewhat heavenly language that made them participants of a cycle of the following order – stare, smile and giggle. At one point, they laughed in unison that it awakened the old woman who was beside me.
“What the heck,” the old woman uttered out of exasperation.
They looked at her and continued.
The young man was wearing a slim-fit jeans and medium-sized, buttoned polo shirt with an open-jawed crocodile logo on the left side. The vibrant woman was wearing a pink dress, which was tailored according to the Yaya Dub fashion craze.
It started raining. Inside my bag was my umbrella. Inside her pocket was his hand.
“They are probably on their way to a date,” I told myself.
I looked around like an investigator trying to determine the pulse of the other passengers. I wondered if the any of the adults would butt in the moment. Nobody said a thing. We were all staring at them. They were in a bubble, in a zone, in a place that’s not dictated by the culture, expectations, and norms of reality. For them, we were just strangers. That we’ll forget about them once we get off the vehicle.
The driver glanced at them twice through his rear view mirror. He clearly lost his spotlight.
My mind was juggling ideas. But above everything, there were two things. I closed my eyes.
One of them was cultural. They were the living examples of some members in my generation’s non-conformance to the conservative ways of our parents and the generations before. My mother always reminds us how she was courted by my father. There were gifts of variety of goods – sacks of rice, banana, and sweet potato. Livestock were also offered to the family of my mother. Kundiman was very alive. He serenaded her. But no touch. No dates outside the vicinity of the eyes of my mother’s parents. Until one day, she fell in love with him because of his charming smile, red lips, persistence and for being a gentleman as expected to a Bicolano. They finally had their first date when they pronounced their vows in the wedding.
Would you want courtship to still be this strict?
In this age, when Facebook is taking over the social media spectrum and as it promotes connection all over the nations of the world through Internet.org, our generation is slowly being disconnected in our own cause to the former path, the old conduct, the conventional ways of our forefathers on how we should handle ourselves on the matters of the heart. Those that belong in the generations before are judging some of us as immature and irresponsible by our “liberated” actions of expressing our feelings to the one that we love that they observe in public.
And the other one?
It’s the hypocrisy of some of us.
Pirated pornographic materials are rampantly sold everywhere despite the effort that the Optical Media Board (OMB) and other organizations put. Provocative, sexy dance numbers of human beings who call themselves “artists” in noontime shows are being viewed by millions of people. Prostitutes roam the streets of the key cities in Metro Manila during off-hours. We are aware of all these things. But isn’t it true that these are worse forms of immorality, of PDA, of violations of the values that we take pride us a people?
Some of us judge those who show their affection in public in a form of warm embrace, HHWW (holding hands while walking) and quick kiss on cheek. We instantly put them in a negative light. But we are forgetting the bigger demons of immorality that are in front of our eyes. After all, we are a Christian nation, aren’t we?
While it is true that courtship and relationship setups have changed as time passed by, there are still many Filipino millennials who take to heart the value of merely going out on a date with someone or spending time together in a museum or cafe, of waiting, of not making rush decisions to be with the one they love. They still care on how the people around them see them which is a responsible way of handling their hearts in public. And since it’s the love month, expect these eyesores to be more rampant than any other time of the year.
As I opened my eyes, I saw the landmark stoplight few meters away. The “celebrity couple” was still giggling. The other passengers no longer care. It’s still raining. It’s cold. He’s keeping her warm. She loved it. I opened my bag and searched for my black umbrella. While I question everything that I understood about love and romance, I glanced at them again. For I know that I displayed my affection in public for the one I loved once in my younger years. And probably, you did too, right?
you shivered when you
first saw her
your voice trembled
ice cream melted
coffee spilled
hands quivered
the ‘Hi’ and the ‘Hello’
do you still remember?
because years from now
you will smile about
these not as signs
of shyness but
as clues of
sincerity; to remind
you of how blessed
you are to be
with her
that you chose each other
and you ended up
together.
There are emotionless and soulless entities in the world that you have to live with. They will suck everything that you have until you can no longer recognize who you really are. They will try to fit you in the same box that the men and women before you had to endure. Don’t let them stop you. Please write, compose, draw, paint, innovate, and create. Challenge this world’s perspectives and have the courage to go against the tides with a clenched fist and a roaring heart even in silence. And when you doubt yourself and that nobody seems to care, remember the reason why you accepted the fight. Embrace your first love, recognize your gifts, listen to the voice deep within your core…
“Who would want to forgive those who betrayed, abused, and beguiled us? Who would want to forget the hardships some of us had to endure or our loved ones had to experience?”
TODAY, WE celebrate the 119th anniversary of the declaration of our people’s emancipation from Spain. But are we truly independent?
In the clash in Marawi City between the government forces and the Maute Group carrying ISIS flag and ideologies, the President did not know of US help beforehand. He was surprised like a child despite being the head of the state who has access to every sensitive information and channels regarding national security. How about China’s irrefutable bullying when it leisurely transformed some of our territorial islands and islets in the South China Sea? But in addition to these, I believe that the invisible wounds in the past still haunt us: the declaration of Martial Law at the latter part of the Marcos regime, the death of Ninoy Aquino, Jr., the decay of the people’s trust and confidence to some government officials because of corruption, the unsolved crimes, the human rights violations, the forced disappearance of activists like Jonas Burgos, the Maguindanao Massacre where 58 people have been killed, the failures in the justice system, and the insensitivity of the machismo-laden Congress and Senate to children’s and women’s rights. We remember one or two of these every now and then not because we want to but because similar things happen or intertwined events surface on the news that hinder us to forgive and to forget. Who would want to forgive those who betrayed, abused, and beguiled us? Who would want to forget the hardships some of us had to endure or our loved ones had to experience?
Maybe, we need this moment to know how we should move forward as a nation. Maybe, just maybe, today, we’ll understand the true meaning of independence that the dignified and brave Filipinos in our history fought for that we may live in a country that’s unchained, unlocked, and free from elements of oppression and suppression; that we may continue to be vigilant with a peaceful heart not with rage or with the spirit to destroy; and that we may transform this unhappy country together against the 15th to 18th century Spain’s variations today – invisible or not.
THERE’S AN ongoing crisis in the Philippines that’s worse than the Maute group attack in Marawi City. Yes, it’s greater than the Filipino fascination with heroes and cursing of villains. It’s our attempt to simplify things by resorting to one-liners, labels, and generalizations. It’s more convenient to describe single mothers as ‘na-ano lang’; the 16 million supporters of the current president as ‘Dutertards’; the PNoy true believers as ‘Yellowtards’; the corrupt media men and women who sold their honor to be a voice of a particular party instead of binding with the truth and reason as ‘Presstitutes’; the millions of addicts as ‘sub-human’; the gays and lesbians in our midst as ‘worse than animals’; Muslims as ‘terrorists’. These do not accomplish anything but create more divisions. And while we are busy figuring out how others are different from us, or on how one’s opinion gravitates from fake news at a glance, we forget to listen, to read, to research, and ultimately, to convince ourselves that in times like this, it’s best to pause and pray for our country.
IT’S FRIDAY. The Cavs lost in Game 1 of the NBA Finals. Metro Manila is in high alert due to the early morning attack in Resorts World Manila where 37 people died either by gunshots or suffocation while 50 got injured. The relatives of 11 soldiers who were killed by the ‘friendly fire’ of government forces in the Marawi crisis mourn and despise the senseless death of their loved ones. The supporters of the president continue to downplay the right and left criticisms when he joked that his soldiers can rape women under martial law in the Philippines. These may trouble some of us but not those whose eyes and hearts also see the awesome things around. It’s when someone gives up his seat for you on an MRT/LRT train or on a bus. It’s when you realize that you’re on vacation leave today because it’s your birthday. It’s when someone offers you food or drink for free. It’s when someone commends you for your valuable contribution to a cause. It’s when you face the truth that your balance is greater than your expected remaining amount when you are about to withdraw in an ATM caused by miscomputation on your part in the absence of receipts from previous transactions. It’s when you push the button for the elevator and it’s already there. And maybe, just maybe, it’s when you sense the calmness and confidence in Lebron James, coach Tyronn Lue, and the rest of the Cleveland Cavaliers in their showdown against the 4-All Star backed adversity like the Golden State Warriors after a 22-point Game 1 loss to emerge in the end as back-to-back champions in the NBA. I hope.
“How many lives should be lost for the MRT management and the government to seriously act on this? How many limbs should be injured for those in power to make a move for the commuters’ safety?”
IT’S TUESDAY at around 2 P.M. about two weeks ago. I was on my way to work and about to get into the entrance to buy a ticket at MRT-3 Guadalupe station northbound in Makati City when I observed that the train was not moving. It’s stuck. The entrance has been blocked. Usual lines of people were nowhere to be found. Confusion and chaos were evident. Out of curiosity, I then asked one of the passengers who has been forced to get off the train earlier that afternoon: “Sir, what happened?” And then he responded: “A man jumped into the rails.”
I was shocked. I couldn’t utter a word.
At 2:10 P.M., I decided to take the bus going to Megamall. I have been told that there are P2P (Point to Point) buses there to get to North Avenue in Quezon City. Naturally, I was worried about the male passenger who was pinned down under the MRT’s first coach.
As I was onboard the P2P bus, I couldn’t help but ask these questions: Why did he attempt to commit suicide? What was going on in his mind? Why were there no platform screen doors at MRT stations to prevent suicide attempts and to protect the public from danger?
There was no way I could know the answers to the first two questions except if I’ll be given a chance to talk to the man in person. But the third one is worth pondering and requires the same degree of scrutiny.
In an interview, Deo Manalo, the MRT director for operations said the Department of Transportation of the present administration has a plan to install platform screen doors to prevent suicide attempts. But, when will they be installed exactly? This year? In a few months? When?
A quick Google search with the keywords “MRT TRAIN SUICIDE GUADALUPE” will give you an idea that it’s not the first time that this incident happened at the same station. In 2013, a man died after jumping in front of oncoming train. Pinky Webb wrote on the ABS-CBN News website: “After a male passenger allegedly committed suicide by jumping in front of the train, MRT general manager Al Vitangcol said they initially planned to put up screen doors only in three MRT stations namely Taft Avenue, Shaw Boulevard and North Avenue, by the end of the year… He said, however, that because of the recent incident, they will eventually construct the platform screen doors in all 13 stations of the MRT.”
Again. 13 stations. Where are they now? Why were they not have been put up yet four years later?
How many lives should be lost for the MRT management and the government to seriously act on this? How many limbs should be injured for those in power to make a move for the commuters’ safety? How many guards should accidentally fall off the tracks as they make sure that nobody steps on the yellow edge tiles with hundreds of thousands of passengers of MRT to attend to every day? How many more poor train drivers should be charged with reckless imprudence resulting in homicide after a frustrated passenger knelt in front of the train or positioned his or her head on the rail aimed to suffer critical and direct hit?
In a country that has become immune with inefficiencies around including the public transport, the psychological impact of being a witness to a suicide attempt is unspeakable and is sometimes forgotten. What if there are children on the scene? What if they become traumatized on the horror that just happened in front of their eyes? What if we forget that suicide attempts in our train systems should not be part of the normal?
Can you remember the LRT-1 suicide of a woman in 2012? How about the every now and then news of suicide successes and attempts on PNR rails?
In the 2016 South Korean action thriller “Train to Busan”, the protagonists lead by Seok-woo (Gong Yoo), a divorced fund manager and Seong-keong (Jeong Yu-mi), a pregnant wife of Sang-hwa (Ma Dong-seok) faced horrible dilemma as they attempt to spare their lives and flee from hordes of zombies on a running train which ultimately bound for Busan after several other stations have become havens of infected passengers. But here in our country, instead of boarding the train, some of us decided to face death by a train thinking that they’ll be killed instantly with the knowledge that they may look like the zombies in the movie on the next scenes.
I understand that it is not a piece of cake to have budget allotment approved in a snap for platform screen doors or any other upgrades in our train systems for public’s safety. These cost millions of pesos because more than the materials needed, the barriers on platforms must be calibrated which will only open when a train has arrived. But, isn’t it just a matter of prioritization and political will? It has been said that the transportation system of a country is a reliable barometer of its advancement, growth, and prosperity. If there’s an image of us that should be etched on the international stage, it should not be the death of a Filipino in the hands of another Filipino, or of an MRT, LRT, and PNR train rampaging a Filipino passenger as dictated by his or her will or not. Instead, we should aim to be a model of efficient and safe transport systems and services like our neighbors in South East Asia.
But while waiting for the changes to come, I’ll listen to the Ed Sheeran, Bruno Mars or Beatles songs playing inside MRT-3 Guadalupe’s elevators and pray that nobody jumps off the train tracks again. You do not want to start or end your day standing in front of blood-stained rails, do you?
“That matters more than awarding her a crown with a shape reminiscent of Manhattan skyline made up of 311 pieces of diamonds, 5 pieces of blue topaz, 198 pieces of blue sapphire, 33 pieces of crystal and 220 grams of gold.”
UNLIKE SO many Filipino fanatics who watched the whole Miss Universe 2016 coronation last Monday, I watched only the Q&A portion in the replay out of curiosity. I chose to protect myself from getting hurt because days before the event, I had a pulse, after keenly observing her answers to interview questions, that the Philippines’ bet will lose for failing to provide a satisfactory and impressive answer in the Q&A portion. I hoped like former Miss Universe Gloria Diaz that I be proven wrong.
Since I did not watch the event on live TV, I learned of the outcome when I logged in on my Facebook account. Barrage of comments and posts of netizens stunned me on how Maxine Medina should have answered the question: “What is the most significant change you have seen in the world in the last 10 years?”
“Nasa huli ang pagsisisi” as the saying goes and we proved time and again how debilitated we are in accepting defeat. For a country that long craves to be recognized in the international scene, 7,107 islands – strong, another failure is a no-no.
“Sana, nag-tagalog na lang siya” one of my FB friends said. “Ang bobo ng interpreter. ‘Pangyayari’ ang sinabi imbes na ‘Pagbabago.’ And worse, another one commented: “It should have been Kylie Verzosa (the reigning Miss International 2016). She’s way better than her!” Have you ever wondered how we became this harsh online?
When Manny Pacquiao fought Juan Manuel Marquez for the fourth time and tasted another loss in his illustrious career, we were quick to wear our boxing analyst hat to declare that he should retire to not have his record tainted and to preserve his legacy. But how did we react when it has been announced that his “The Fight of the Century” bout against Floyd Mayweather Jr. has been inked? We were thrilled and exuberant. Some of us even watched the fight in pay-per-view in malls and bought pricey tickets.
Some of the most common answers to the question for Maxine Medina that have been shared by netizens range from the growth of social media, to advancement in technology, and to climate change. But what did they miss as they brag their wit online? What did they forget when they suddenly personified the character of the most prolific pageant expert in the world, the universe rather when they posted their status updates on what Maxine should have uttered? It’s that they shared those thoughts while they were in the confines of their room, in their home, with their family and friends or in some other place where pressure was nonexistent. They were not on stage, with millions of people watching and cheering from different parts of the world. They were not in a chaotic situation. No drama. No one to compete against. No judges.
Can those people even speak in public to share their thoughts given that they are as graceful as Maxine?
In a way, answering the question in Q&A portion in Miss Universe is a form of public speaking which is one of the top fears of the human race, alongside heights and bugs. It is no surprise that all the rational thinking of a person vanishes when in front of a huge audience. But like other skills, it can be harnessed. The mastery of the skill is not obtained overnight or in a few months, but this fact is something that we have forgotten. It is not a walk in the park. Miss Universe is a competition which requires its candidates to be confidently beautiful and to possess deep grasp of what’s going on; to be socially and politically aware as ambassadors for change and meaningful advocacy. It’s not just about what to say but how to say it.
And again, how did we become harsh online?
Alain de Botton, a Swiss-born, British author, observed that due to the increasing popularity of social media, people have shifted from keeping secret diaries inside their locked cabinets in which no one else has access to online bashing and bullying. It’s convenient. In just one click and a few brain cells, instant exchange of ideas of people they know and do not know happens. Internet is a free space for now. Unlike the real world, people treat their actions in the online world as an independent dimension with no direct impact into their lives which is scary. People experience relief after expressing their disappointments. The profane, degrading words that we see in the comments section of an article or at the homepage of social media accounts of different people like bobo, tanga, walang isip are just on the surface of what’s really going on in the psyche of some Filipinos.
At the end of the day, we should debate not what went wrong in the pageant, or what the perfect answer is to the Q&A portion, or what the correct translation is to the question but what’s happening on the ground to our Filipino women. Some of them are being raped, abused, and butchered. Even at this point in our history, we still hear news reports of sexual violence to our women in public spaces and public transport – jeepneys, buses, and taxicabs. We should direct our energy instead in addressing these issues and help preserve the purity of our women in which we Filipinos have been known in the past. Let us instill and strengthen the culture of respect to them which has significantly been overlooked in the past few years.
I know we have changed a lot as a nation. But is it too much to ask to treat every decent, classy, and dignified woman as Miss Universe? That matters more than awarding her a crown with a shape reminiscent of Manhattan skyline made up of 311 pieces of diamonds, 5 pieces of blue topaz, 198 pieces of blue sapphire, 33 pieces of crystal and 220 grams of gold.
“And on the things they are good at? Let’s encourage them and be there to support them. Because it is only when they understand who they really are can they feel the comfort and security of being in their own skin and the essence of being alive.”
HAVE YOU ever felt rejected because the thing you were good at was not valued, or worse – stigmatized?
“You’re related to Mrs. J, the Mathematics Division Coordinator, right?” my high school teacher asked. “Why can’t you answer the quadratic equation on the board? You are just good at public speaking.”
I stood for 1 minute. No, 2 minutes and 30 seconds. There was chaos inside me. I blamed myself. I felt small. Helpless. Someone raised his hand. Our math wizard. Her favorite. The superior being in a class of forty young and hopeful souls. I got everyone’s attention. And then I asked myself: “What is wrong with me?”
I knew it was coming. It also occurred to my classmate who had represented our district for creative story telling contest. A few weeks before, one of my classmates, who’s known as the best school paper writer, has been humiliated for getting the lowest score in our Algebra quiz. And the day before, another one, who has an inclination for the arts, overwhelmed by fear, anxiety, and inner turmoil cried in front of everyone else after being shouted at for failing to provide the solution to a word problem in Physics. Do these resonate with you?
We celebrate the STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering and Math) geniuses in schools like gods in the heavens. We regard their achievements as more valuable than that of chess players, the athletes, the dancers, and the theater actors in our midst. We see excellence in creativity, sports, and arts to be inferior flashes of intelligence because they do not have comparable economic worth as dictated by capitalism and industrialism. But, is it sustainable?
Isn’t it true that most of the existing public education systems in the world have a hierarchy of subjects?
Creativity expert, educator, and author Ken Robinson said in his 2006 TED Talk: “But something strikes you when you move to America and travel around the world: Every education system on Earth has the same hierarchy of subjects. Every one. Doesn’t matter where you go. You’d think it would be otherwise, but it isn’t. At the top are mathematics and languages, then the humanities, and at the bottom are the arts. Everywhere on Earth. And in pretty much every system too, there’s a hierarchy within the arts. Art and music are normally given a higher status in schools than drama and dance. There isn’t an education system on the planet that teaches dance every day to children the way we teach them mathematics.”
We have been introduced to an education system that embraces linearity, conformity, and batching. We have been told that whenever there’s a problem, there are choices to choose from; be it A, B, C, D, or sometimes E. We learned that there’s only one correct answer for every question. And so, just like machines, some of us became stiff, immovable, and unable to go beyond the grasp of their imagination.
It has been said that kids are born scientists and artists. We were curious, weren’t we? We were explorers of our world and in return, we discovered how to use our senses to have a better understanding of what’s going on around us. We learn. We commit mistakes. But as we grew older, we became more and more afraid to try something new and be deemed wrong. Some of our peers’ dreams have been crashed by some adults and educators in their lives – intentionally or unknowingly. They lost their creative capacity in the process. Some of our teachers, relatives and friends told to us to blend in because that’s what everyone has been doing. As a result, they suppress their real identity to the point that they can no longer recognize who they are.
We have seen some people around us go through their lives without having a real sense of what they are organically capable of doing. We see them endure their jobs rather than enjoy them. We became witnesses of some people from different generations posting sarcastic “Happy weekend!” with emojis and smileys as if they have become slaves during the workweek. If you’re passionate about your work, shouldn’t you feel misery instead of cheerfully declaring that you’re at last free to spend your well-deserved weekend? Isn’t that a bold sign that you’re not doing the work that you genuinely love?
If the current education systems are concrete, sure ways for literacy and success, how come some of the biggest names today never graduated from college? Steve Jobs left school and founded Apple with Steve Wozniak. Mark Zuckerburg, the chief executive officer and co-founder of Facebook did the same thing. Bill Gates, one of the world’s wealthiest and widely recognized philanthropists, quit school and is the man behind the software I am using right now and the million others around the globe to pound their ideas into their computers.
About a year ago, Leonardo DiCaprio spoke about how real climate change is and the need to urgently work collectively together and stop procrastinating to solve “the most urgent threat facing our entire species” in his speech after finally winning an Oscar for Best Actor in a Leading Role. But, shouldn’t we also take a deeper look at the human ecology? Today, degrees do not matter that much anymore. Millions of fresh graduates are forced to spend their time not on harnessing their talents and abilities but on leveling up their characters in computer games. This simply tells us that there’s a great disconnect between what the job market needs and what the available supply has.
We have to revolutionize education to arm the coming generations for the future that they have to face and rethink existing principles that may be applicable for positive impact. We have no idea how challenging the world will look like in the years to come, but we can prepare them. We should stop treating ourselves the same way we treat machines in factories – for single purpose. We are too complex to be contained in a box.
And on the things they are good at? Let’s encourage them and be there to support them. Because it is only when they understand who they really are can they feel the comfort and security of being in their own skin and the essence of being alive. If we’ll do these, they’ll never doubt themselves and be more appreciative of the diversity and differences of human capacities. More importantly, they’ll never ask, “What is wrong with me?” but rather be more focused on the special and unique things that deeply lay in their core as key elements for human ecology to flourish.
Our talents and gifts have been stigmatized in one way or another. We should not let it happen again. For our children’s children and the generations to come.
“Film as a form of art serves as a catalyst for the audience to take a sound look at what’s going on, to reflect, to empathize, and to act for personal and social development.”
WHEN DID you last watch a locally produced film in a theater not so much for the stars who are in it as for its story, production values and technical excellence?
While the country goes through national cleansing from illegal drugs and criminality fueled by “The Duterte Revolution,” as termed by National Artist F. Sionil Jose, the annual Metro Manila Film Festival (MMFF) has revealed its own version of metamorphosis. As bravely announced by University of the Philippines professor Nic Tiongson, eight official entries were named, which the members of the MMFF board unanimously chose for the public’s viewing pleasure.
Surprising for me was the exclusion for the first time in the festival of “Enteng Kabisote” and “Mano Po,” which are on their tenth and seventh installments this year, respectively. That’s right: tenth and seventh. MMFF Goliaths “Mother” Lily Monteverde and “Bossing” Vic Sotto were shocked and frustrated. But should they be?
I visited the MMFF website and read its mission: “A festival that celebrates Filipino artistic excellence, promotes audience development, and champions the sustainability of the Philippine film industry.” And here’s its vision: “To develop audiences for and encourage the production of quality Filipino films, and to promote the welfare of its workers.”
Where is “Filipino artistic excellence” in a film that you expect to showcase, for the nth time, the same old formula: scenes of running, shooting and fighting fantastic creatures and other beings? Where is “quality Filipino films” in movies that time and again use the defense “Christmas is for kids” to justify poor storytelling and absence of creativity?
Are some of us that dumb that they make do with eating the same Noche Buena and Media Noche every MMFF season, with recycled concepts and forced twists in the script?
Renowned astrophysicist and thinker Neil deGrasse Tyson once said: “If there is a country without art, it’s not a country I want to live in. If there’s a country without science, you’re living in a cave. We measure the success of a civilization by how much … how well they treated their creative people.”
When I heard this, I remembered what Lily Monteverde had said: “You know, there is a time for the indie movies, but not the Christmas season. Christmas is for the family.” Are we treating our creative people rightfully if we seclude them from a festival over which she has been reigning as a queen for a long time? Isn’t that a degrading statement to indie filmmakers, who mightily try to survive in a country that has a trifling regard for the beauty of the arts and quality films?
So far this year, I’ve watched only one Filipino movie. A colleague invited me to join her family one Friday evening days before my birthday in July to watch a historical drama based on the memoirs of St. Ignatius de Loyola, the founder of the Jesuit order. I was thrilled and curious.
“At last! A sensible movie!” was my reaction when the plot summary was introduced. “Ignatio de Loyola” kindled hope in me that Filipinos are too capable, competent and imaginative to be dismissed from the international stage. Truth be told, most of the mainstream movies shown after the blockbuster “Heneral Luna” in 2015 were not outstanding.
Are we not tired of the trend of our local films that, by just the title, reveals what the stories are, the flows of events, and their endings? Boy meets girl. Flirtation. Betrayal. They hook up even if one of them is in another relationship. Beach scenes. Sensual exchanges. Bodies colliding. Morning kiss. Characters dressed in white clothes. Reality kicks in. Guilt enters the picture. The forbidden relationship has to end. One asks for forgiveness. To move on, or to hold on? Frustration. Car accident. Amnesia. Final kiss. 5 seconds. Happy song. 20 seconds. The end. And the bloopers, for the members of the audience to believe that they had a great time.
Film as a form of art serves as a catalyst for the audience to take a sound look at what’s going on, to reflect, to empathize, and to act for personal and social development. We’ve heard the saying, you are what you eat. But isn’t it true that we are also what we watch? If we’re just content to spend our time watching rubbish posing as films and not have the curiosity to look beyond the horizon for better fare, maybe we deserve the chaos we’re in right now—a forgetful and gullible nation.
We have an opportunity in the coming MMFF to experience an unforgettable Noche Buena and Media Noche of high-caliber films. Let’s embrace the chance. It could be that the decades of slavery to mediocrity are gone, and we are independent, at last!
(This piece has been published in Young Blood, Opinion, Philippine Daily Inquirer on the 15th of December, 2016.)
sasamahan kita sa unang taglamig sa ibang bayan, sa pagngiti nang sa wakas gapusin ng iyong kamay ang mga unang patak ng niyebe mula sa kalangitan
sasamahan kita sa mga paglalakbay, sa mga bundok, burol, ‘di kilalang daan, mga bagong bagay, tao, at pambihirang karanasan
sasamahan kita sa iyong mga pagtangis, sa mga pangamba, sa pag-abot sa mga bituin, sa paghiling sa mga bulalakaw, at sa bawat pagyapak ng iyong mga paa sa dalampasigan
sasamahan kita sa pagyakap ng ulan sa mga lansangan, sa pagsaksi sa lagablab ng araw sa umaga, at sa dahan-dahang paghalik ng dilim sa pisngi ng dagat
“Perhaps, President Duterte will still curse. He will still speak his mind to whoever claims to be a moral authority in the years to come. But shouldn’t we first seek to change ourselves? Shouldn’t we first seek to be contributors and vigilant actors to the nation-building advocacy that he wants us to take?”
IN MY childhood, I used to spend my weekend afternoons in our backyard watching tree clinging, 12-legged caterpillars transform into majestic flying butterflies. If nature permits, the cocoon would slowly break open paving the way for a beautiful creature to exist. It was magical. But today, I no longer see butterflies just as they are or their metamorphosis as a metaphor for 180-degree transformation. I see PDu30 in them.
A few days before he sworn into office, PDu30 said: “There will be a metamorphosis of the mind. From being a caterpillar, it will blossom into a butterfly.”
I still remember how hopeful and excited my mother was on the makeover that would occur on the most powerful man in this country. But did he really change? Can a man really change his ways in a snap to be more presidential? How can his demeanor reflect the way we see ourselves as a nation?
President Duterte knows exactly how to play his game. He got 16 million votes for a promise of strongman rule. Every time he curses, a microphone is in front of him to capture everything. Cameras are all over as he moves his mouth. He doesn’t care if you’re the Pope. If you made him wait in traffic for hours, feel free to listen to his wrath. He confessed every possible detail of his humanity that can be used against him during the campaign period – a womanizer, bloody murderer of rapists, and a killer of sorts. While this “playful use of words” has become second nature to him, a majority of us including the international media is caught unprepared, confused, and puzzled on what he really meant. He is willing to slap anybody even a former senator and cabinet secretary with his truth. He has “nothing to hide” he would say. And then expect his speakers and allies quick to interpret and explain what he just uttered.
Just recently, he headlined news reports for “cursing” President Barack Obama of the United States. But if you’ll play the video over and over again, he did not directly curse him. He addressed it to those who would question the way he handles the drug problem in our country in the ASEAN summit. I wonder why some media organizations say otherwise.
Every day, we witness his antics, we listen to the way he expresses himself, his expiration in controlling his mouth and emotions past midnight which is common to someone who’s 71 years old. He’s probably irritated, we would say.
But how did we get here?
Why did we resort to a cursing, foul-mouthed president instead of entrusting the kingdom to yellow king’s heir – masked with his signature elitist eyeglass – who has vowed to continue the fight for the straight path in well-tucked polo shirt? How about the short, dark-skinned man who reigned over the concrete jungle of the country’s financial district and prematurely announced his aspiration to the throne?
The answers to these questions are slowly revealing themselves in front of our eyes. We got tired. Our ears got to the spilling level on the traditional politicians with the same platforms that we sought for someone sincere and unconventional. We’ve become impatient of the inefficiencies that surround us that we made ourselves believe that who we need right now is a punisher, a strongman, someone who understands what we’re going through in our everyday lives. PDu30 is the exact opposite of PNoy when it comes to demeanor and manner of speech. I’ve never heard PNoy curse; PDu30 has it in his system.
We celebrate him despite of the knowledge that thousands have died in his world-famous war against drugs. Those who were killed either resisted arrest or tried to steal the gun of the police officer while being handcuffed, they would say. We believe on this reasoning because none of our family members has become a victim yet. Because we believe that nothing will happen to good people. And at the same time, we accepted full-heartedly that an innocent man could die. It’s the trade of the game. Because we understand that in any warfare there shall be collateral damage. They are just numbers flashed on our tv sets. Just another update for the day until someone close to our hearts becomes a lifeless face of that statistics. Can’t we see the disconnect on our own beliefs?
Suddenly, we became more involved. We post comments and status updates about the workings of the government. We watch his every interview. We listen to him like students to a teacher with the admiration to be catalysts for change. We talk about him during lunch at work and within the confines of our homes. No wonder, historically, he has one of the highest approval ratings among presidents.
PDu30 made us realize that we’re not genuinely happy inside. We’re unhappy with drug addicts and pushers roaming around backed by some corrupt law enforcers and government officials themselves. We’re unhappy to walk on the streets no matter what time of the day because there is no security.
Perhaps, President Duterte will still curse. He will still speak his mind to whoever claims to be a moral authority in the years to come. But shouldn’t we first seek to change ourselves? Shouldn’t we first seek to be contributors and vigilant actors to the nation-building advocacy that he wants us to take?
And the next time that President Duterte flaps his wings on stage or in front of a camera to deliver a 45-minute extemporaneous speech about the challenges and pressing issues that we face as a country, may we not just count his contradictions and the number of times he cursed but choose to see him the same way President Obama once described him: “Clearly, he’s a colorful guy.”
From the moment
We laid our eyes on you
We imagined the great things
We’ll do together and we
Knew something was real:
You got us with your smile, Kent.
Every time we held you
Your warmth ruled us with
Pure, unpretentious love
A feeling that God has
Reserved for us.
You travelled with us, talked to us
In a language that at first we
Couldn’t understand
But the joy in between us
Bridged the gap.
We were given two years to enjoy
Each other’s company
It was a short time
We will surely miss you.
We’ll miss how you stare at us
How you tried to mimic how we speak
How you embraced us with
Your soft, tiny arms
How we held hands when
You had your first walk.
We’ll miss how an icing
Covered your face on
Your birthday and your
Dimples made our day.
We’ll miss your sincerity
Your voice, your peace
Your laughter in times of
Chaos and celebration.
We’ll remember you for all these
For the adventures that
We shared together.
And everyday we thank God
For meeting you
For witnessing your
Extraordinary journey.
You will always be our Superman
Our little boy with an imaginary
Cape made from heaven.
“Whenever I felt down or it seemed like the world has revolted against me, whenever I had a bad dream, I would lay beside her. I would press my ear against her belly and she knew our routine: I would embrace her, kiss her, and close my eyes.”
WHEN I was a child, I used to lay beside my mother and press my ear against her soft, warm belly. I would close my eyes and imagine the world inside her, on how the rice grains travelled from her stomach to her intestines after every meal and listen to the grumbling sounds which became my lullaby. While it is true that my mother was passionate about books and stories in her youth, I never fell asleep while listening to her reading or when sharing one. I would fall asleep every time I listen to the enticing borborygmi created by the movements of her intestines.
Lying beside her is one of the most peaceful places in the world. And then one day, chaos came in the real world and inside my head.
In May 1999, while sitting outside our house, my father saw the kitchen of an apartment building nearby. It’s on fire.
“Fire! Fire! There’s a fire!” he shouted at the top of his lungs as he pointed his finger to the apartment’s window on the second floor.
The people in the neighborhood were alerted. Confusion surfaced. My mother approached my father to calm him down. But she’s too late. He’s having a heart attack. Again. The second time in the past year and the third time in his lifetime. I shed tears. I was too preoccupied to process the whole scene that I peed in my shorts.
They rushed him to the hospital. He stayed there for months. During that period, our youngest and I only heard bits of news. We were not allowed to make a visit for we were warned that the hospital was full of sick people and we might get infected. My mother never showed any sign of weakness.
In July 1999, two weeks before my 9th birthday, on a round, wooden table with nothing on top of it, I heard the saddest news. “Tatay is gone… He passed away earlier today” our eldest sibling said who just came from the hospital. I didn’t know how to react or what to say. There was silence. And then cries of longing.
For a few weeks, after the death of my father, I’ve not seen my mother smiled even once.
I wondered how she would manage the gargantuan task of raising a big family like ours of 8 members. We were still attending school. Our eldest sibling was still in college. How about the tuition fees? How about the daily expenses? How can a laundrywoman and part-time dressmaker shoulder everything?
I still remember how she pleaded the sari-sari store owners in our place to lend us their canned goods, rice, instant noodles, etc. for our meals. We were turned down multiple times and despised at because we couldn’t pay our debts on time. There were times when we would skip meals. Our relatives on the other hand have been so supportive to make our situation better. But the support was not enough. It was one of the lowest moments of our lives.
My mother always said: “Someday, we’ll get over this.”
Looking back, all we could do is to smile. I understood everything that happened then. I still couldn’t believe that we survived and continued to fight all because of my mother who stood by her principles. All of her children graduated from college and I know that she’s proud about it.
Whenever I had an assignment about essay writing in grade school, she was there like a hero who’s always ready to rescue the one in need. I didn’t know how to compose a sentence or recognize an independent clause then. She has shown me the wonders of stories and on how to spark the curiosity of the readers. In public speaking, she shared the importance of confidence and on how the manner by which you stand in front of everyone else can either leave them fascinated or disappointed.
My mother is our family doctor. I couldn’t remember a time that she did not take special care of any of us, her children when we’re sick. She would buy the necessary medicines, have us drink Gatorade to avoid being dehydrated and would prepare and apply wet cloth on our foreheads to lower the body temperature. Even her siblings, my aunts and uncles, would contact her for advice when it comes to health issues. We’ve become witnesses of a woman who stayed in hospitals for months because of my father’s condition. And by that, she gained experiences and tons of information for simple types of sickness.
My mother will turn 63 in October this year. She’s a senior citizen and the evidence of her old age is her constant complaint of body aches. Another proof is whenever she willingly and proudly waves her senior citizen I.D. at Jollibee, Chowking and Mercury Drug Store for discount on her purchases and in theaters in Makati City to watch a movie for free.
I stare at my mother whenever I have a chance and ask her random questions like, “What is your favorite color, or favorite food, or what place do you want to visit next, ‘Nay?” I go on a date with her every time it is possible.
Whenever I felt down or it seemed like the world has revolted against me, whenever I had a bad dream, I would lay beside her. I would press my ear against her belly and she knew our routine: I would embrace her, kiss her, and close my eyes. And finally, I would whisper: “I’m thankful and grateful to God that you’re here and you’re my mom. Thank you for your courage and love. I love you, ‘Nay.”
“Isn’t it true that there are some main actors in our education system who engage in practices that kill not just the creativity but also the drive and the spirit of some of their students? Our lives are altered, our outlook changed, and in the end, some of us give up, thinking that we are not good enough.”
HAVE YOU ever been made to stand in class for the rest of the period because you were unable to answer a question or gave the wrong one?
“What is the matter?” Prof. X asked. Nobody wanted to answer. Our room, which only a few minutes ago was filled with laughter and stories about Anime, NBA and our classmate’s latest smartphone, turned silent, again, just like yesterday, or last week, or even last term. We were thrilled, in a bad way. We were too scared to make a mistake, or to even try.
She looked at me and said: “Mr. Zenarosa, do you know the answer?” Having a surname that starts with the last letter of the alphabet has some advantages. You are called last in a system where “Abel,” “Almeda,” and “Asuncion” are always at the front line. And yes, Abel stood longer than I did. Again. Everyone was standing, just like when Eraserheads or Bamboo or Adele is on stage, having the time of their lives in a concert. And we? We, too—35 young minds—were having the time of our lives, at the worst.
Have you ever wondered why this is? When one experiences a humiliating situation, will it make one question oneself, pretend that one is a superhero, and ultimately change in a blink with an imaginary cape? Isn’t the classroom supposed to be a venue for free thinking, for an exchange of ideas with a teacher, who, after having obtained a doctorate, should know more than anybody else that fear does not always result in learning or knowledge or the evolution of ideas?
Ken Robinson said in a TED talk: “I like university professors, but you know, we shouldn’t hold them up as the high-water mark of all human achievement. They’re just a form of life. There’s something curious about professors … not all of them, but typically, they live in their heads. They live ‘up there,’ and slightly to one side. They’re disembodied. They look upon their body as a form of transport for their heads.”
When I heard this, the image of Prof. X popped into my head, and one other. They walk with so much civility. Their minds and their understanding seem way beyond normal, so that the public—in this case, we, their students—cannot even chat with them during break times or when we bump into them in the hallway. They should be respected, no doubt. But is this the best we can have?
Isn’t it true that there are some main actors in our education system who engage in practices that kill not just the creativity but also the drive and the spirit of some of their students? Our lives are altered, our outlook changed, and in the end, some of us give up, thinking that we are not good enough. Some of us are shouted at for not finding the “x” and “y” or slope in a math problem in front of everyone else, with a piece of chalk, or a white board marker, in our hands, trembling—the longest minutes of our lives. We feel inferior in an instant. We start to believe that we can go nowhere, even if, in some areas of our lives, we are succeeding.
And the other one?
I was bullied in high school. But it was not your conventional bullying, which is student to student; it was teacher to student. The topic was atoms. The teacher asked: “How many holes … does this sponge have?” She then looked at me from head to toe and told me to rise. “In your case, how many holes does your face have?” she said. Being born to a family that seems to have so much regard for the propagation and safekeeping of pimples from one generation to the next, I looked down.
Last row. Right wing. Seat 45. For a boy whose surname starts with the last letter of the alphabet, and who was made to stand, again—this time, the first one—to answer a question that had no relation in any sense to the topic, it was infuriating.
She laughed. Very hard.
Ten seconds. I was crying. I wanted to teleport from where I was sitting to my bedroom. To hug my favorite pillow. To hide. To forget.
Fifteen seconds. Everybody was laughing. I had an out-of-the-body experience for the nth time.
After an hour, everybody settled down for their lunch break.
I was still at Seat 45. And with all the courage that I could muster from my thin, young, ashamed self, I chose not to leave.
Looking back, did those episodes really make me stronger?
We grew up in a culture that views such episodes as normal. That a kid in every other block should somehow experience these things. That he or she is weak and that someday, he or she will be thankful for the “challenge” put to him or her. That bullying, in different levels, is a part of growth. But is it?
Some of us are good at painting, photography, or the other arts. Some of us are sent outside the four corners of our schools for writing, public speaking, or athletics competitions. We gain confidence for every success story. We are this country’s future.
But some of us are silently keeping our pain inside. We are becoming casualties, in certain ways, of the mentors our parents want us to meet in learning institutions.
We are a people with much regard for hard work. We know from childhood that we cannot reap what we did not plant. But I was wrong to apply this principle in those situations. I was not supposed to experience those terrible moments. Nobody is. I was discriminated against and was wronged. We were made to stand for more than an hour inside or outside the classroom, supposedly for us to work harder, to give us more time, so that next time, our mouths will be a fountain of beautiful answers. She wanted us to realize something.
And do you wonder why I still remember those details? It’s because I got hurt. And just like the other faces of hurt that this world can offer, those experiences will never be forgotten or deleted as old, ugly files in my personal awareness.
I chose to improve. The education system and the way things are done can flourish over time. But we have to rethink how students should be treated in any classroom, whether they have the answer or not. We can do better than shouting at them or bullying them.
And at any rate, your brain dictated “Matter is anything that has mass and weight” as the answer to Prof. X’s tricky question. Be ready to pack your things, confidently stand for an hour, inside or outside the classroom, with a heart.
(This piece has been published in Youngblood, Opinion, Philippine Daily Inquirer on the 4th of February, 2016.)
Una. Kailan nga ba magkikita ng mukhaan sina Alden Richards at Yaya Dub?
Ikalawa. Ano bang ipinaglalaban ng INC members nang mag-rally sila sa EDSA-Shaw noong Biyernes, araw ng sahod?
Ikatlo. Anong ginagawa ng MMDA Chairman sa Albay sa Bicol samantalang ang bigat pa rin ng traffic sa EDSA?
Ikaapat. Bakit sandamukal na permit ang kailangan para lang makapagtayo ng cell site sa isang lugar para mas mapabilis ang internet speed?
Ikalima. Sino si Martin Romualdez na biglang may malasakit sa buong bansa?
Ikaanim. Anong klaseng espiritu ang pumasok sa pagkatao ng mga leader ng Bureau of Customs ng ipagutos nila na pagbubuksan ang balikbayan boxes ng OFWs?
Ikapito. Paanong nangyari na nakapag-bail si Sen. Enrile sa isang non-bailable offence na gaya ng sinasabi sa Constitution?
Ikawalo. Anong itsura ni “Babala” na asawa ni “Babalu”?
Ikasiyam. Kung walang Forever, anong tawag mo sa kung anong meron yung nanay at tatay mo (at yung mga sinaunang homo sapiens)?
Ikasampu. Nasaan na ang diary na naglalaman ng mga sikreto ni Lola Nidora at bakit ayaw niyang magkatuluyan yung dalawang karakter sa una?
“Sports breathes from hope. And to engage yourself in sports is a way to relieve the different forms of stress of life. However, if used the improper way, it can be lethal. A promise of escape from reality can be turned into a nightmare that will forever haunt the minds of people.”
CHEERS WERE replaced by sighs. Nobody wanted to leave the theater. We were shocked. Everybody hoped that maybe Jimmy Lennon Jr. read the scores incorrectly. “‘Yun na ‘yon (Is that it)?”, the old man sitting beside me shouted in exasperation. We waited for the climax of the movie pictured mentally by hundreds of millions of fans all over the world – Mayweather, the wife-batterer – blank-faced, defeated, on the canvas after being hit by Pacquiao in a barrage of punches in every angle. It never came.
We were fooled. We are living in a country facing international conflicts on the West Philippine Sea and the government is “exhausting all efforts for the lives of the 88 Filipinos in death row” including the much-publicized Mary Jane Veloso who has “innocent face and will break your heart” as described by Neal Cruz. Poverty is all over the place. Some children roam around the streets of Manila with no clothes on. MRT and LRT have become havens for pickpockets and other thieves. 44 members of the PNP-SAF were massacred, most of them on a cornfield, exposed to enemy fires. Corruption is rampant in almost all levels. And as a passionate people, we placed our hopes in Pacquiao’s powerful fists that we might forget all these, on that bright, glorious day. That we can laugh our hearts out after 6 years of expecting. But then again, it never happened. His camp revealed that he injured his arm weeks before the fight. We believed that “I’ll be at my best come May 2nd”. Or should I say, “We were made to believe”?
Sports breathes from hope. And to engage yourself in sports is a way to relieve the different forms of stress of life. However, if used the improper way, it can be lethal. A promise of escape from reality can be turned into a nightmare that will forever haunt the minds of people.
Looking back, Pacquiao fought a good fight. He never backed down. It takes greatness and strength to take a punch or two to finally get inside Mayweather’s defense and launch one good shot either on the head or to the body. Pacquiao lost some credibility for not disclosing his real condition before the fight.
Boxing has faced one of its deaths that day. At least, the curiosity and interest of millions for boxing may rest within themselves. And while I look forward to Lebron James and the Cavs bagging a championship from one of the major sports in the US for the people of Cleveland, I still cannot believe how expensive the tickets were of the memorial service I attended on May 2. That was the day when I first saw vibrant and lively fans transformed into zombies in a matter of minutes, walking slowly towards the exit – to go home.
We are so vulnerable. While we boast that we reached the modern life that we enjoy today, with laptops, gadgets, and etc., we still cannot count all our hair as what a verse in the bible says. Just like the other mysteries in the world that we cannot comprehend that we will soon forget – we can be forgotten. But the good thing is, we can try to leave a mark on those who will be left. It may not be as grand as the works of Mao Tse Tung, or of King David, or of Napoleon Bonaparte, but what’s important is that it is based on truth. And you can expect that it would exist over time.
In this long weekend, let your mind and heart rest from everything that happened in the past. May you find your cave in this fast-changing world even under the light of a thousand stars. And come back stronger.
Inisip mong kaya mong lumipad gaya ni Batman, pero, mali ka pala dahil may Bat Mobile si Batman, hindi lumilipad kahit saan gaya ni Superman;
Lahat, itinuring mong kalaro – ‘yung kamag-anak, kapit-bahay at maging nagkakara-krus sa kanto;
May gumagawa ng projects mo. Ngayon sa utak mo mismo galing ang proyekto;
Nag-try kang ipunin lahat ng enerhiya sa katawan at ilagay lahat sa isang hintuturo para sa Raygun, ngunit, walang lumalabas, kahit naisalin na sa’yo ng lahat ng kalaro mo ‘yung spirit power nila, ayun! naisip ninyong naglolokohan lang kayo. Tumirik na ‘yung mata ninyo sa kakatitig, walang nangyari. Ibang laro na lang, ‘yung may Kamehame Wave, sabay sipa, batok, tadyak sa kalaban;
May malaking puno malapit sa inyo, inisip ninyong magkakalaro na may duwende at tirahan ng maligno, kaya naghanda kayo ng panlaban – potion na may bawang, sibuyas, alateris, asin, paminta, at kung ano pang nasa Bahay Kubo. May game plan – aatake kayo ng alas-sais ng hapon o sa takipsilim o bago pauwiin ‘yung Mama’s Boy sa grupo. Kapag naisagawa na ang plano, magtatakutan kayo. Niloko n’yo na naman sarili n’yo;
May burot lagi sa laro. Ngayon, ‘di mo na maasar, dahil malaki pa sa’yo. Baka bigla kang itali sa poste ng Meralco;
Ang liit pala ng bola na gamit ninyo noon. Akala mo ang lupet mo na, dahil dakot mo ‘yung bola. Dinadakdakan mo ‘yung ring sa inyo, sabay sabing, Gori! o In your Face! Hanggang lay-up at jump shot ka na lang ngayon sa tunay na court. Point guard ka na lang. Dati center ka, ang liit mo pala;
OK lang na may uhog sa ilong (o braso matapos subukang tanggalin) o kahit walang brief. Ang cute mo, ang sabi nila. ‘Pag ginawa mo ‘yon ngayon, kadiri ka. Rapist. Exhibitionist tawag sa’yo;
Busog ka na sa Zest-O with mamon o sa soup na pinipilit ipaubos sa inyo ng teacher mo, kundi abono ka;
Pinipilit kang patulugin ng panganay ninyo sa hapon. Samantalang ngayon, ‘di ka na makatulog sa dami ng bagay na nasa utak kahit gustuhin mo;
Ang dami mong panahon, pero mabilis palang lumilipas, gaya ng ilang bagay na hindi mo na maalala dahil dumating na sa kanilang wakas.
“Give time and appreciation to those who value you more than anyone else. I failed to keep one person in my life and realized that she’s more important than any award and recognition I’ve received.”
I HAD set 2 rules for myself to survive the onslaught of college: rule number 1 – finish your bachelor’s degree in 4 years; do not hold any position in any student organization; rule number 2 – go back to rule number 1. That was the master plan. But, just like other stories on TV and books, mine have twists too.
Eight years ago, the senior students in my course spearheaded the founding of a new student organization in the campus named BSEE Guild (or BSEEG, Bachelor of Science in Electrical Engineering Guild). Its mission was to promote academic excellence and camaraderie among electrical engineering and electrical technology students in the campus. It was said that a question popped up from nowhere and they asked, “ECE has IECEP, why can’t we have our own?” With the strength of more than 200 members, the organization was founded. Naturally, our seniors, the experienced ones, held the top posts in the organization. There were more than 10 Accredited Student Organizations (ACSO) at the time in the campus, academic and non-academic, and BSEE Guild was one of them.
After a year, the officers were able to organize activities that helped furnish the loop holes and the challenges of taking care of the newbie in the campus. It was the start of the first semester for academic year 2008-2009. I was a sophomore. It was announced that the election for the next set of officers will be held a week after.
The election came. The outgoing BSEE Guild president started with, “The nomination for president is open, any nomination?” I was holding my notebook at the time in preparation for the exam the next day. I really didn’t care about the meeting. I just wanted to attend as told by our class president. And then, for some reason, while I am reviewing Newton’s Laws of Motion, falling in love once again in the concept of gravity, and smiling all by myself for the realization that my answer to the question, “What is Matter?” is wrong all along as explained earlier that day by Dr. A (our professor in Physics and Chemistry), my classmate who was sitting beside me on the floor) suddenly looked at me and said, “Ben, na-nominate ka!” (Ben, you were nominated!). I was irritated at first and asked, “Ano ba? ‘Wag mo kong guluhin! (What? Don’t distract me!). I came back to reality. Everyone was looking at me. I looked at the white board and saw my name next to the words – Nominees for President. I observed that no one’s listed other than me. I heard the crowd saying, “Unanimous na yan, siya na president natin! (It’s unanimous, he’s the new president!). I can’t believe it at first. I lifted my black bag and stood in front of them. I told them my rule number 1 – I do not want to hold any position in any organization in my stay in the campus. But still, they insisted. I saw them smiling back at me. The mood was positive. They told me that I can do it. They shouted my name as if I won a boxing match. They learned that I was an officer in high school and represented the university in an inter-campus speech competition; they thought I was the right fit. Finally, I accepted it. That afternoon, I received the congratulatory remarks of everyone. Just like what might happen to any rule, half of rule number 1 was thrown out of the window.
Things changed in a blink of an eye. My day no longer ended in my affair with Calculus but by saying goodbyes to other student leaders in the campus after attending a meeting. Sometimes, they would call me Mr. BSEEG instead of my first name. My bag no longer contained just notebooks, pens and books, inside, it also had a clear book where almost all of the important documents of the organization were kept. While my classmates were solving word problems in Strength of Materials at home, I was still in the campus, preparing a document to be submitted to the Office of Student Affairs as a permit the next day. Or while one of them is inside his room, thinking about the type of flower to give and the lines to utter when he finally ask one of my classmates for a date, I was there, staring at the heavens and chatting with the guard, waiting to talk to a professor from other university in the metro with a master’s or doctorate degree in social sciences or engineering, convincing him or her to be the next speaker for a seminar or training – for free. Most of them declined after hearing the last 2 words of the invitation. Suddenly, my opinions mattered. I found myself attending symposiums with the officials in the main campus in Manila and other universities. I also gained more friends.
Like the colors in a rainbow, there were days when l felt blue. There were days when I was frustrated and angry as yellow because things didn’t go my way. Most days, like red, I was oozing with confidence and passion that our projects would be realized.
One day, the other half of rule number 1 was in danger. My grades were not impressive. I can no longer give time to the people close to me. There were pressures all over. It was as if I was in a tank full of water and there was no way I can breathe. I wanted to resign.
I searched for advice from different people. But inspiration came from inside. I told myself that if I give up now, I will give up the future. And almost everything went well.
After a year, we successfully organized more than 20 major and minor activities, had more than 20 organizational meetings and were awarded the “2nd Most Active ACSO” in the campus. I attended more than 20 internal meetings (meaning inside the campus) mostly sponsored by the Supreme Student Council and more than 10 activities organized by local and national organizations like the Ten Outstanding Students of the Philippines – Alumini Community (TOSP-AC) and the Institute of Integrated Electrical Engineers – Council of Student Chapters (IIEE-CSC). I have met some personalities like the president of the university system, student leaders from other campuses and Sonia Malasarte-Roco, the wife of former Senator Raul Roco.
Looking into everything, I realized 3 important things. First, you are just a passerby. You will leave your position someday, be it chairmanship, or presidency or any other posts. You will soon graduate and a lot of people might forget about you. Make the most out of it, live in the moment and leave a positive mark. This is also true with your job. Second, relationships matter. You may be the president or an officer of an organization, but keep your eyes wide open to the micro level. Give time and appreciation to those who value you more than anyone else. I failed to keep one person in my life and realized that she’s more important than any award and recognition I’ve received. Lastly, not everything that you learned is right. Just like what your mind dictated you as the answer to the question by Dr. A., “Matter is anything that has mass and weight.”
Yes, I have violated half of rule number 1 but I have never imagined how good life would get.
“If only we make reforms in the education system for children in the young age to achieve a better understanding for the biases and differences and practices of all groups, ethnic or local, religious and political, we may have a better future.”
HOW MUCH does peace cost? Does it require the displacement of more than a million families or the deaths of thousands and the revision of a Constitution even before you and I probably were born?
I am always curious as to how beautiful Philippines is. More than its scintillating and 7 Wonders of the World caliber spots, the smiles of its people, Muslim or Christian, I wanted to discover its cultures no matter how diverse. I wanted to know their stories. However, the line that divides its people became more evident now more than ever. The Bangsamoro Basic Law (BBL), or what others call it, “the sole key for peace in Mindanao”, is still in the air but nobody seems to have the will to have a grip of its wings, for now.
Six years ago, 58 trembling souls had departed, one by one allegedly because of those who are seeking political immortality in Maguindanao. And just over a month ago, still in Maguindanao, on January 25, 2015, Clash of Mamasapano happened. At the height of passing and pushing of BBL a tragedy surfaced. There was a news-break “44 elite Philippine National Police – Special Action Force (PNP-SAF) combatants were killed. The best of the best were massacred”. The day the news broke, the country was saddened. There were angry, dismayed, and emotional senators, congressmen and government officials on TV giving interviews. A proposition of “all-out-war” against the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) and Bangsamoro Islamic Freedom Fighters (BIFF), a breakaway group of the MILF, has been the subject of discourse. Professors of universities and the intellectuals of the different sectors of societies were debating whether BBL is the real answer for peace in Mindanao or not. And there were “instant experts” in the peace process as well in social media.
But the truth is, according to Rappler, “…the number of fatalities in the day-long clash to at least 68. The incident also claimed the lives of at least 7 civilians, including a 5-year old girl.” There were Muslims or Moros and civilians who were killed, but the “44 PNP-SAF” combatants were those highlighted because they are from the government. They are regarded as “heroes” and the other victims of the clash as shadows and smokes and dusts of the “misencounter” (a new term used to describe what happened; it is not found in Merriam-Webster dictionary). It is not that I do not feel the sentiment of the families of the PNP-SAF commandos; it’s just that equality is nowhere to be found by observing and listening to every word that comes out of the mouth of non-Muslim government officials.
As a country with the majority of its people calling themselves Christians, we know a little about those we call our “brothers” (a description we remember during Ramadan). Here are the limited facts that I know about Muslim or Islam or Moro.
“Moro” is a political or cultural term that refers to a society of people or an individual which are mosly living in Mindanao. “Muslim” on the other hand is a “faith-based” term that refers to a society of people or an individual who believes in Allah (their God) and has “Islam” as his or her religion. We usually see them selling DVDs, cellular phones, and other gadgets in malls. “Bumili ka sa Muslim” is a generic phrase being used by those living in the metropolitan areas whenever they have to transact to “Muslim” people in the market for cheap goods. We enclosed them in a box of identity just like this. These people are usually wearing long, white clothes. Some have their faces covered. They are unusual for first timers and for those who are used to seeing women wearing short “shorts” and fitted shirts and pants for men. There are communities of Muslim people in Taguig City and at the southern part of Visayas and most are living in Mindanao. They have structurally elegant Mosques where they practice their Islam beliefs. In elementary, we tackled Islam as one of the religions in the country and that there are different identities of Muslim in the Philippines, politically. Tausug people are the more famous. They live near the seas and known as “the people of the current.”
At the dark side, they are referred to as “terrorists” by some governments which in my opinion is improper and unethical for there are billions of Muslims all over the world and attaching the term to these people or even to make it sound synonymous for those who listen is injustice, unjustifiable and racist. Their argument is that most of the terrorists in the world are Muslims.
If only we make reforms in the education system for children in the young age to achieve a better understanding for the biases and differences and practices of all groups, ethnic or local, religious and political, we may have a better future. Once we understood and built respect on one another, bullying in the grade school level related to differences in religion will just be part of history. Not only that, we can have leaders who are sensitive enough, objective, and who will not let events aggravate their emotions and destroy the very mantle of the long history for peace process and goodwill in that part of this nation.
I hope that positive change happens sooner to save another family from being displaced in their homeland, or for a child to continue to have the education and learning environment and basic rights he or she deserves under the Constitution and for Christians and Muslims to finally meet half way and make an understanding that is more important than any resources this world has to offer.
In an interview by Boy Abunda (in his show The Bottomline) with a representative from Mindanao, he asked, “What it’s like to be in that place (in Mindanao)?” Then she answered, “It’s such a nice place”. Being the second largest island of the Philippines, Mindanao has resources that we should have been utilizing for the growth of the country. Malacanan boasts an average of 7% economic growth. But the reality is, this growth is only felt by those in classes A, B, and C. – the rich and middle class. How about the masses, those in classes D and E? We are an archipelago and we need every help we can get to alleviate the sufferings of the greater number of people from inside.
The Nobel Peace Prize is still in the horizon for the president, if indeed he is running after it as a seal to his legacy. And yes, it is not commensurate to the gravity of loss of lives we have witnessed in the past decades because of this conflict. I hope that that glorious day would come that Christians and Muslims go hand in hand in fighting the more aggressive demons of humanity like poverty, corruption and the inability to weigh things that are of greater value for the afterlife. After all, we all want peace and everyone loses in wars. Our eyes may not see it but at least, our children will. We have to give them a blood-cleansed land where they can go visit the provinces in Luzon, Visayas and Mindanao without any troubles in mind that one of their own can change it in a blink of an eye. We can weep. We can blame everybody. But looking at the bigger picture of things, there is no better alternative.
There are different paths for peace. The only question is what path to choose and if we will take the first step to attain it today and beyond.
Una. Na kahit napatayo ka ng ilang ulit sa Chemistry class ni Dr. A. dahil hindi mo nasagot ng tama yung mga nerve-wracking at tricky questions niya tulad ng, “What is matter?” eh may pag-asa ka pa ring maging productive at matinong citizen ng Pilipinas;
Ikalawa. Na hindi Calculus ang pinakamahirap na subject kundi P.E. (Dance) dahil kailangang magpresent sa dulo ng semester at makita ng buong school na nasira yung back drop ninyo dahil sa pagmamadaling itago ang mukha sa kahihiyan ng mga hindi nabiyayaan ng talentong sumayaw; na ikaw bilang host eh magpapatawa na lang;
Ikatlo. Na kahit dumaan ka pa sa training ng malulupit na English at Filipino professors ng unibersidad ninyo para sa Inter-campus speech competitions, mauubusan ka pa rin ng Ingles, idiomatic expressions at paksa kapag ang boss mo ay native English speaker; madalas ngumingiti at tumatawa ka na lang kahit ‘di mo lubos na naiintindihan ang sinasabi;
Ikaapat. Na hindi madaling kumita ng pera; maging ang mga mangangalakal ng basura maghapon naglalakad at naghahanap ng mabebenta;
Ikalima. Na may mga classmate kang akala mo walang patutunguhan, late lagi sa klase o ‘di kaya absent lagi ngunit mauungusan ka pa sa career opportunities; dapat mong tanggapin ‘yon;
Ikaanim. Na totoo ‘yung sinabi ng dating Health Secretary, “Fast foods can make you fat, they are full of fats” (tataba ka nga);
Ikapito. Na hindi dapat nagje-jaywalking, may nasawi na dahil ‘di sumunod dito;
Ikawalo. Na dapat matutunang magmove-on (sa maraming bagay);
Ikasiyam. Na madaling lumipas ang panahon, ‘di mo mamamalayan dahil wala ka ng school calendar na sinusundan, may sarili ka na kasing kalendaryo na sa ayaw mo at ayaw mo dapat mong bitbitin;
Ikasampu. Na ‘di lahat ng pinaniwalaan mo totoo; tulad ng idinikta ng utak mo bilang sagot sa tanong sa una, “Matter is anything that has mass and weight.”
“I miss the smell of a still-hot-just-delivered broadsheet. I miss the enticing sound one creates in turning its pages. I miss holding history with my hands. I miss the old days… but I know I will return someday.”
“FILIPINOS ARE not a reading people, and despite the compulsory course on the life and works of Rizal today, from the elementary to the university levels, it is accepted that the ‘Noli me Tangere’ and ‘El Filibusterismo’ are highly regarded but seldom read (if not totally ignored). Therefore one asks; how can unread novels exert any influence?” – Ambeth Ocampo, Rizal without the Overcoat
Each of us has his own and distinct passion. It is something that drives our soul because of excitement and extreme joy and so the body follows. It is not just a pastime. It is a craft that helps us understand our inner being and the world outside and vibrantly live with it. My passion for reading started in 6th grade when this young, shy, Most Behave Awardee, had a conversation with the class valedictorian. I asked her if I could join her on her way home one sunny afternoon. Our classmates teased us but I was glad she didn’t mind them.
“How did you do that? How can you share the things and stories you mentioned in our English class?”
“It’s because I read books and articles in broadsheets.” Her answer pinched a deep scar in my heart. On that moment, I saw myself added to the reading population.
They say that by reading books and newspapers you will be a listener, a traveler, and a fan. And then, it occurred to me that for the past nine years, I have been exploring the world not through an epoxy-coated wooden boat or oil-powered vehicle but by flipping through the pages of the books and dailies that I can and sometimes cannot relate with; mustering every word for my curiosity’s satisfaction. I have been stolen from reality and taken to a different dimension. I have been spoken to, directly, by different authors and thinkers. I have been a fan not just by the senators, congressmen, environmentalists, leftists, rightists, MMDA officers, engineers and technicians but of the common, complex, rare, and sometimes out-of-this world characters created by the minds of the so-called ‘writers’. I remember Nancy Malone’s book, “Walking a Literary Labyrinth”, where she talked about reading as an act of meditation; how imagination allows the mind to grow after a process.
I enjoy reading different book series. One of which is Youngblood, originally published in Philippine Daily Inquirer’s Opinion section. This is not your usual material for twenties and teens. Only the best and most riveting articles get to be chosen by the committee to be published. Different youth experiences are voiced out in this column, unveiling stories about life and love. Everything under the sun, created by the young minds of this country, is shared and pointed out.
One of our literature mammoths, Jose Rizal, brought a different perspective in me in our college subject “Rizal’s Life, Works, and Letters.” It is not just because he made two illustrious novels – Noli me Tangere and El Filibusterismo – but because it took me a while to research new facts about his life. Has everything about him been shared and written? We consider him our national hero. Poets address him as the “greatest man in the brown race.” He made me realize that nationalism is not limited in dying for your country. What’s important is how you lived your life to influence the succeeding generations even after you’re long gone. One of which, is giving value to your own roots. And because of this, I met Ambeth Ocampo, the former Chairman of the National Historical Commission. It did not happen personally. I chanced upon his article in PDI, “Looking Back”, and it was the start.
In 2007, with the help of my mom’s friend, a retired U.S. army soldier, I got an access to copies of different newspapers. Every day, I would cut articles from the first page all the way to the last page of the newspaper. I would write the publish date in red caption. I kept everything in a long, red clear book. Never did I realize that I would, one day, call myself a collector. In an inventory I made two weeks ago, I have a total of 567 newspaper articles, excerpts and clippings by different columnists from different broadsheets. Some of my favorites are Michael Tan’s “Pinoy Kasi”, Conrado de Quiros’s “There’s The Rub”, Patricia Evangelista’s “Method to Madness”, Neal Cruz’s “As I See It”, Rina Jimenez David’s “At Large”, Juan Mercado’s “Viewpoint”, and Amando Doronilla’s “Analysis”. Raul Pangalangan, who took over as the Publisher of Philippine Daily Inquirer after the passing of Isagani Yambot last year, is also included in my list. His column then tackled important issues like the state of the nation and the relevant principles of the law on different social, political, and economic issues.
One of those who influenced me to accept, nurture, and love this craft was my friend, a staffer of the official student publication of the university I attended years back. She spent time for it despite majoring in a technical course which was an unusual feat. Not many engineering and technology students have a room for art and literature in their hearts. We love numbers, figures, and mathematics – that was the hollow block we shared. There were days when we talked about anything we fancied; from the blue sky she saw on her way home from a vacation, the formation of clouds on a Saturday morning, the heavy rains brought by the Low Pressure Area, the devastation of a Super Typhoon to low-lying areas in the provinces, up to the latest book she has read. Truly, things are best done when shared.
Also in college for two months, my mentor asked and advised me to spend at least two hours after class to read old piles of articles in the library in preparation for my public speaking competition. It’s one of the most creative periods of my life.
To keep up with technology, I left my conventional, old-fashioned way of collecting articles and news stories. As the saying goes, “When a door closes, a new window opens.” News and media organizations have embarked and embraced the current technology by putting up their own websites. Today, you do not have to buy a newspaper to be updated with what is going on at the other side of the country and of the world. Information is readily available through the internet. And they are no longer limited with printed texts but supported with HD videos and photos. They are real-time and interactive and in a sense, exciting and challenging.
I miss the smell of a still-hot-just-delivered broadsheet. I miss the enticing sound one creates in turning its pages. I miss holding history with my hands. I miss the old days… but I know I will return someday. It is not the newsprint that changed me but the stories in their core.
In the future, at the right age, I will tell my children this secret I kept for eight years; introduce them these dignified people and show them my no blank pages treasure.
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